


two, across

by QuickYoke



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Professors, Eventual Smut, F/F, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, and they were COLLEAGUES (oh my god they were colleagues)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-10-29 13:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 62,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20797700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickYoke/pseuds/QuickYoke
Summary: Lysithea can barely keep afloat under the workload of giving undergrad lectures and finishing off her PhD thesis. Meanwhile Dr. Hilda V. Goneril is somehow both the laziest person as well as the most successful young professor she has ever known. It's absolutely aggravating.





	1. Chapter 1

> _ “Homes are a crossword puzzle I can’t solve.” _
> 
> _ -Maria Tsvetaeva “Moscow in the Plague Year” (trans. Christopher Whyte) _

* * *

* * *

Lysithea stares down at the newspaper. The world is falling apart, political crises cropping up everywhere, precarious markets teetering on the edge of another GFC, and worst of all: someone else has already done the crossword.

Even worse still, whoever has done the crossword puzzle has done so absolutely flawlessly. In pen. With no mistakes. She picks up the newspaper, incredulous, to inspect the crossword more closely, but sure enough -- perfectly executed in ballpoint. 

Her hand clenches into a fist, crumpling the thin pages. Breathing deeply, Lysithea smooths the page out again. In her other hand she holds a travel mug filled with a mocha and extra marshmallows. It's 6:46am and the offices of the biosciences department are empty but for her. Or at least she had assumed that the offices of the biosciences department were empty, but clearly that is not the case. Not unless someone waltzed in and stole the free department newspaper before 6am, which was ludicrous. 

Nobody but her bothered to come in this early. Who could have possibly ruined her routine? It's the beginning of the first term of her last year of her PhD thesis, and if there's one thing Lysithea hates more than the thought of having to actually submit her thesis, it's a break in routine.

With a huff, Lysithea takes a sip of her coffee, then starts on a hunt through the offices in search of the culprit. Most of the offices are dark, their doors locked. Her own office is little more than a dingy storage closet that was converted into spare workspace for the youngest of the departmental doctoral students. But when the university allowed her to teach undergraduate courses, they had to clear out an office as well. It came with the territory. 

Directly across from her own door is an office that she rarely saw open throughout all two of her years at Garreg Mach University. The nameplate on the door sports the letters: DR. HILDA V. GONERIL. Lysithea's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. The door to Hilda’s office is open a sliver, showing a slit of light from within. Stomping forward, wielding her newspaper and coffee like relics in some holy war, Lysithea barges in without knocking. 

Hilda is not -- as Lysithea had expected -- working. The back of her office chair has been loosened so that it leans precariously back, and one of Hilda's bare feet is propped atop the desk. She is hunched over her foot, wielding a tiny paintbrush and bottle of pink nailpolish that matches the colour of her hair. 

Hilda only glances up in bored disinterest from where she’s painting her toenails, before returning her attention to her present task. “Oh, hey! Lysithea, right? What’s up!”

Instead of answer, Lysithea holds up the newspaper as though it’s a piece of labelled evidence in a murder case. “Did you do this?” 

“Sure did. Hey, do you want me to paint your nails, too? Pink would look great with your complexion.”

“What? No.” Lysithea scrunches up her nose. “Why are you even here this early? I’ve never seen you here before noon.”

In truth, Lysithea has rarely seen her around the office at all. They had been introduced a year ago, when Hilda had been hired as the department’s newest Associate Professor, but as far as Lysithea could tell, the woman might as well have worked on another campus. She could count on one hand the number of times they had exchanged words, none of them particularly memorable. 

Hilda rolls her eyes. “Ugh! I know, right? I drew the short straw, and got the 7am undergrad OChem courses this term. Can you believe it? Being the most junior professor in a department is _ the worst.” _She puts the finishing touches on her foot, and drawls, “Buuut it does mean I get to leave early most days. Tit for tat.” 

Hilda puffs up her cheeks and blows on the wet nailpolish. 

Angry words gather on the tip of Lysithea's tongue. She has to take a deep breath to quell them. "Dr. Goneril -" she begins.

Hilda makes a face. _ "Ew. _What are you? My student? Don't call me that."

Lysithea grits her teeth. "Hilda," she begins again, trying to sweeten her words as much as she possibly can. "I would really appreciate it if you didn't do the crossword in the staff newspaper. Could you maybe get a different paper on your way to work, if you're going to be coming in so early every day this term?"

At that, Hilda lets out a snort of amusement. She puts her foot down on the ground, spreading her legs out so that she's sprawled in her seat. The toes of both feet, Lysithea notices, are perfectly manicured and painted. She must have been here for a while now, if she managed to get the crossword out and do her nails before a lecture. 

"No way, short stack. You know how boring it is here without anyone else around? I need to do something with my hands, or I go, like, crazy." Even as Hilda says it, her fingers are fiddling with the armrests of her office chair, drumming a syncopated rhythm. 

Lysithea frowns, remembers she is trying to be charming -- which she has never been very good at, to be perfectly honest -- and puts on a plasticky smile. "Well, maybe we can work out some sort of deal."

Hilda remains slouched in her seat. "Like what?" 

"We’ll trade. You leave me the crossword on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and I leave you the crossword on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and the weekends. How about that?"

"Hmm." Hilda taps her ankles together, like a child who can't keep herself still for longer than two seconds. Then she announces gleefully, "Nope!" 

"Great! We can -" Lysithea blinks. "Wait. What?"

"No deal!" Hilda says, as cheerfully as before. Her cellphone rings on her desk, and a calendar notification pops up on the screen. "Shit! I'm late." 

Rather than stand up immediately and bolt for the door however, Hilda leans her head back and sighs to the ceiling. 

Lysithea stares at her, then at the phone, which is still chirping away. "Aren't you going to go to class?"

"With wet nail polish? Are you kidding?" Hilda waves her hand in the vague direction of the exit, where the elevators are around the corner. "The little goblins can wait."

"It's the earliest class! You'll be lucky if half of them show up, let alone wait five minutes before bailing."

Hilda yawns. "Good. Maybe then I can just go home and get some more sleep."

"At least turn off your phone," Lysithea snaps. The mechanical chirping is really starting to grate on her nerves. It's way too early for this.

"You know, you're pretty bossy for a PhD student." There is no malice in her tone, and even as she says it, Hilda reaches over and presses a button on her phone so that the alarm stops. 

"So I've been told." Lysithea shifts the newspaper so that it rests in the crook of her elbow. When Hilda doesn't look the least bit concerned that Lysithea is still standing in her office, Lysithea sighs, "Listen. I need this, alright?"

Hilda shoots her an incredulous glance. She has begun to swing her chair around so that she slowly twirls in place, her legs outstretched so as not to hit any of the clutter that’s scattered everywhere. Somehow through the full arc she manages to maintain eye contact the whole way. "You need...a crossword puzzle?" 

"It's -" Lysithea can feel her cheeks burn. "It's just a part of my routine! I don't like having my routine interrupted! It ruins my whole day." 

Hilda continues to twirl in her office chair. Her long pink hair, tied back in twin tails, dangles over the back of the chair, stirring lightly as she turns. Lysithea secretly wonders how on earth someone manages to pull off that hairstyle without appearing completely juvenile. If she wore her hair that way herself, she would look like she was fifteen, but when Hilda does it, she just seems like a free-spirited adult. 

Hilda makes a noise between a sigh and blowing a raspberry. Then, all of a sudden, she stops her chair. She bends over double and tests her toenails, deems them suitably dry, and pulls on her socks and shoes -- a pair of black boots that reach just past her ankle. When she stands abruptly, Lysithea has to resist the urge to take a step back. 

She had forgotten that Hilda was so tall and broad-shouldered; Hilda dressed in such a way to make her seem as delicate as possible, but there was no mistaking the flex of muscle beneath her clothes. Most people were tall when standing next to Lysithea, but Hilda had a presence that seemed to extend beyond her, making her appear larger than she actually was. 

Hilda picks up her phone and begins tapping away at the screen to unlock it. Then, she sticks the phone in her bag -- black and trendy, to match the rest of what she wore -- and slings the bag over her shoulder. 

"I really gotta go now. So..." Hilda walks towards Lysithea, making a shooing motion as if trying to herd a cat. "Chop chop! Let's go! Out of my office!"

"Hang on -! Hey! Just -! Can't we talk about this?"

Lysithea is shuffled out the door, and Hilda flicks the light off, shutting her office behind them and locking it. 

"We did talk." Hilda tosses her keys into her bag, where they clank against her phone and whatever other objects are kept all in a jumble in there. "And I liked it! Surprisingly. We should definitely do it again! You’re here tomorrow, yeah?"

“What do you mean _ ‘surprisingly’?” _Lysithea says, indignant.

But Hilda only pats her on the shoulder and strides off towards the elevators. For a moment, Lysithea stares after her, then gives chase. She catches up when Hilda rounds the corner.

"Just leave me the crossword," she says as Hilda is pressing the button to call the elevator. "You can do the sudoku!"

Hilda wrinkles her nose as though she had been offered garbage from behind the cafeteria. "Boring!" she says in a singsong voice. 

The light for the elevator flickers through the various levels to reach theirs on the fifth floor. When the elevator doors slide open, and Hilda steps forward, Lysithea panics and says the only thing she can think of: _ “Please.” _

At that, Hilda pauses. Her hand lingers against one of the doors, keeping the elevator open. Her fingernails are painted the same colour as her toes, the same colour as her hair, and her knuckles sparkle with various gold and coral rings.

She turns around, and holds out her hand. “Give me your coffee.”

“My -?” Lysithea looks from Hilda, to her mocha, then back to Hilda again. “You want my coffee?” 

Hilda makes a grabby motion with her hand. “Time’s a-ticking. Bring me a coffee every morning, and I’ll let you do the crossword. Deal or no deal?” 

To accentuate her point, she lets the elevator doors begin to shut, enclosing her within. Quick as a flash, Lysithea thrusts her hand forward, so that the elevator doors bounce back against her wrist. She holds out the travel mug -- all whites and pastel purples and cartoon kittens -- and announces, “Deal! It’s a deal!”

With a beaming smile, Hilda takes the mug. Their fingers brush. Hilda’s skin is warm, but calloused. When Hilda takes a sip, her face scrunches up in disgust. “Ugh. Way too sweet, even for me. Make it a cappuccino next time. Double-shot.”

“You annoying -!” Lysithea starts to swear, but the elevator doors are sliding shut, and Hilda is waggling her fingers in a little wave of goodbye. “- _ asshole!” _

* * *

The rest of the day goes poorly. Lysithea is convinced it is all because the beginning of her routine was disrupted, and that it only spells misfortune for the rest of the term. It's completely nonsensical, but she can't shake the feeling nonetheless. To top it all off, she only manages to write a hundred words of her thesis, which sets her a hundred words behind her carefully laid plans for the year. Tomorrow, she'll have to write an extra hundred to compensate. Every word feels like pulling teeth. 

Instead of reading articles and writing, as she should be doing, she finds herself clicking through the university faculty website. She has bought herself a hot chocolate from the groundfloor cafe, just to make herself feel better about life in general, and takes a sip as she clicks on the link to 'DR. HILDA V. GONERIL.' 

She nearly chokes on the hot chocolate, when the page loads. 

With only a year and a half as a professor after completing her PhD in molecular biophysics at an outstandingly good overseas university, Dr. Goneril had already published eight articles in her academic career. Lysithea reads through the bibliography list, gobsmacked. It certainly explains why the university wanted her on their staff so badly; any university would salivate over a promising young professor with a matrix like that. 

Four articles a year? Plus teaching two classes a term? That's impossible. There's no way a woman that lazy could have achieved that. Not unless the laziness was an act, and she never slept. Ever.

Four academic articles a year. And here Lysithea sits, struggling to type out two hundred words on an open word document. 

Furiously clicking out of Hilda’s profile, Lysithea opens another tab to the university library database and begins searching for more articles to read for her own research. 

* * *

"Where's my mug?" Lysithea asks the next morning. 

It's 6:17am, and Hilda is cradling the takeaway cup Lysithea had ordered at the cafe down the street, because the cafe on the groundfloor doesn't open until 7am. Hilda yawns. "I left it at home." 

"Well, bring it tomorrow. I want it back." Lysithea snatches up the newspaper from where it had been deposited on the floor earlier that morning. 

"Sure. Whatever," is Hilda's non committal answer. 

Lysithea doesn't believe for a moment that Hilda ever intends to give the mug back, but she'll be damned if she lets it go without a fight. Edelgard had given her that cup as a gift last year, which meant that it was no doubt expensive as anything. 

Starting off down the hallway to her office, Lysithea can already feel the spring in her step at the thought of everything returning to normal. She has a mocha in hand -- extra marshmallows, as usual -- and a fresh newspaper in the other. It's incidental that Hilda is trailing after her; their offices are directly opposite one another, after all. 

She doesn't pay it much heed as she unlocks her door, and steps inside. A flick of the lights. Her bag tossed onto the spare chair, where visiting undergrad students usually sit. And Lysithea drops into her seat, already flipping to the page with the crossword. She folds up the newspaper just the way she likes it, so that the pages have enough grit to not let her feel the scratch of the table beneath her pen, and feels a wave of relief wash over her. She sips at her coffee with one hand, and holds a pen in the other. 

The first few clues come easily. Lysithea scrawls in three of the answers that immediately pop out to her, and it doesn’t register right away that she has not heard Hilda opening her own office door. Lysithea is tapping the tip of her ballpoint pen against the margins of the newspaper. She scowls down at the next clue, and chews her lower lip.

A shadow falls over the table from someone approaching behind her, and a hand reaches over her shoulder to point at the crossword with one perfectly manicured pink nail. "OBDURATE."

With a start, Lysithea nearly spills her mocha. Hilda is standing behind her, takeaway coffee cup in hand. She is close enough that her arm brushes against Lysithea's shoulder. Lysithea can feel the warmth of skin through her cardigan. 

Scowling, Lysithea leans away in her seat to aim a glare at Hilda. "Excuse me?"

"Five down. The answer is 'OBDURATE.'" Rather than get the hint and move away, Hilda sets down her cup on the table so she can use her other hand to grasp the back of Lysithea's chair and lean against it while she studies the newspaper. 

"Thanks," Lysithea grumbles. She adds the answer, and is annoyed when it fits perfectly.

Hilda points to six down. "Ohh! 'Ermine in summer' is 'STOAT'. And seven down is 'TRIPLETHREAT'."

A muscle in Lysithea's cheek jumps in irritation. She writes the words, then grumbles, “This was not a part of the deal.”

“The deal was: I would let you do the crossword. I never said that I wouldn’t do the crossword _ with you. _ Duh!” 

Lysithea tosses down the pen atop the newspaper. “That completely defeats the purpose!”

“CHUTZPAH!” Hilda announces, and grabs the pen from the desk to begin writing it into the boxes. 

“Hey!” 

Lysithea has to wrestle the pen from Hilda’s grasp, but not before Hilda manages to write in another answer. Even then, it galls her to know that Hilda let her have the pen back, and could have easily kept it for herself. 

Lysithea brandishes the pen under Hilda’s nose like a sword. “Quit it! Leave some for me!” 

“You know, you could just get one of those free apps that has, like, a squillion crosswords, right?” 

Glowering, Lysithea turns back to the newspaper. “I like this one.” 

Hilda drops the matter, but only because she is now pointing to another clue with the answer on her lips. Lysithea smacks Hilda’s finger with the pen.

"Geesh. Okay! _ Okay!" _Hilda grabs her cup, but when she straightens she says quickly, "And nine down is 'ABLOOM' okay bye!!"

Lysithea crumples up a spare piece of paper on the desk and lobs it after her, purely out of spite. 

* * *

Lysithea doesn’t know exactly when it happens, only that it does. Suddenly, horribly, Hilda is part of the routine. 

The realisation dawns on Lysithea during the third week. Every morning Hilda is waiting for her by the elevators on the ground floor. Her smile is brighter than the dawn creeping through the windows. She takes the coffee Lysithea hands her, and immediately launches into loud and colourful conversation about her previous evening, about her students, about her cute neighbor and her cute neighbor’s cat, while Lysithea nods -- groggy, and still half asleep herself -- and mumbles appropriate responses. 

They ride the elevator together. They do the crossword in Lysithea’s office, because even though Hilda’s office is bigger it’s always cluttered to the point that Lysithea can barely stand to be in there for longer than a few minutes at a time. The spare seat in Lysithea’s office has become Hilda’s designated seat, which she hauls over to the desk so they can sit, side-by side. Their elbows press together. They drink their coffee, and bicker over crossword clues, and the fact that Hilda has forgotten -- again! -- to bring back Lysithea’s mug. 

Lysithea has even taken to complaining about Hilda in her texts to Edelgard. Her childhood friend lives two timezones away however, and can only do so much via text when she's busy inheriting her family's multi-billion dollar mega-corporation.

The fact remains that on the Thursday of the third week, Lysithea arrives at the elevators on the ground floor at her usual 6:14am, and is surprised to feel utter disappointment that Hilda is not there.

She peers around the corner for any sign of her. She waits. She taps her foot on the ground, and checks her wristwatch, which means she nearly spills Hilda’s cappuccino when turning her wrist over. Finally, at 6:32 she gives up and rides the elevator alone. She watches the floors tick away in bright numbers over the doors, and even though she is rising it feels like her gut is falling.

She places Hilda's coffee cup on the desk, and does the crossword by herself. She should feel relieved. This is what she wanted. The newspaper all to herself. Nobody bothering her. No annoying chatter in her ear. Nobody taking away the satisfaction of figuring out the clues for herself. 

Instead, she keeps shooting glances at the coffee cup as if it might suddenly turn into a rambunctious conversationalist and fill the gap. 

Eventually, with the crossword puzzle only three-quarters of the way finished, other faculty members start to stream into the offices. Lysithea gives up and throws Hilda's coffee into the rubbish bin; it has gone cold. She folds the newspaper back to its original state -- painstakingly ensuring that each crease is exactly as it should be -- and places it on a corner of her desk. She pulls her laptop towards her, and opens up her latest thesis draft document with a beleaguered groan. 

For the first time in three weeks, she doesn't get the full two hundred daily word goal that she set for herself. It irritates her to no end. 

She considers going to have a chat with her counsellor, Mercedes, but decides to just text Edelgard instead. She gets back a reply almost immediately, reminding her to eat something that day, which she has predictably forgotten to do. In response, Lysithea types back a message telling El to get some sleep. The phone goes quiet for a minute, then another text pings back from Edelgard with a series of 'zzz's that makes Lysithea roll her eyes. 

A knock at the door behind her, and Lysithea whirls around in her seat. It's not Hilda. Her stomach twists unpleasantly at the realisation. 

Lysithea puts her phone down. "Hi, Professor Hanneman. Do you need something?"

Hanneman hovers politely in her doorway until she greets him, at which point he pushes the door fully open and steps inside. "Good afternoon, Lysithea." He nods towards the newspaper. "Are you finished with that?"

She isn't. The crossword is nowhere near finished. Lysithea's mouth slants to one side, but she sighs and hands the newspaper over regardless. "Here. It's all yours."

He takes it with a gentle smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes behind his round spectacles. "Thank you."

"You haven't heard anything from Tomas, have you?" Lysithea asks. "It's just -- I sent him the last draft of my thesis a month ago, and he still hasn't gotten back to me.”

At that, he grimaces in sympathy. "I'm sorry, but no. I haven't heard anything. You know how busy he is.”

Crestfallen, Lysithea mumbles, “Yeah.”

“I’ll follow up with him again,” Hanneman assures her, but they both know there’s not much he can do. Tomas is her main thesis supervisor, while Hanneman was only an adjutant brought into the process earlier last year. At the beginning of this whole thesis ordeal, she had thought Tomas would be a great supervisor -- he shared her Alma Mater, and other family connections -- but so far he had been nothing but chilly and unhelpful throughout the process. 

“Thanks. I would appreciate if you did.” 

He nods. He’s about to leave, when she blinks. “Hanneman?” 

“Hmm?” He turns back in the doorway to face her.

Tugging at her lower lip with her teeth, Lysithea asks, “You don’t happen to have Dr. Goneril’s cellphone number, do you?” 

* * *

After her own lecture later that afternoon, Lysithea stands in her empty classroom and worries her lower lip between her teeth. Her phone is in her hands. A contact is open on the screen with the name 'HILDA' beside the call button. 

Lysithea takes a deep breath. She taps the icon, then raises the phone to her ear. It rings for a long enough time, that she is led to believe Hilda won't pick up, when the dial tone stops.

There's a rustling sound on the other line, followed by a raspy, "Hello?"

"Hi!" Lysithea says. "It's me."

A pause. 

"Who?"

"Lysithea."

More rustling. The distinct noise of the phone being dropped, and then muted swearing, as Hilda fumbles for it. 

"Oh. Yeah. Hey," Hilda says when she's picked up the phone again. She doesn’t sound thrilled, but she doesn’t sound mad either. "What's up?"

"Nothing! I just -" Lysithea has to put her free hand down when she realises she has lifted it to her mouth so she can chew on her fingernails. “I was just wondering if everything was alright. You weren’t here today, but if you’re just playing hooky, then -”

She is interrupted by a series of coughing. Lysithea holds the phone away from her ear until Hilda is finished.

“I mean -” Hilda rasps, “Normally you would be totally on the money, but not this time.”

For some inexplicable reason, that makes Lysithea feel unfathomably guilty, even though she knows that her initial assumption was on the mark. 

“Do you - Do you need me to get you anything?” Lysithea can’t believe that those words just came out of her mouth, but it’s too late to take them back now.

Silence. Then -

“Schweppes Sparkling Lemonade.” 

Lysithea’s brows furrow in confusion. “What?”

“I said: Schweppes Sparkling Lemonade. I’ll text you my address.”

And then Hilda hangs up. True to her word, a text appears almost instantaneously on the screen while Lysithea is still blinking down at her phone in befuddlement. It’s only at that moment that Lysithea remembers she doesn’t own a car, and will need to take public transportation to get out to -- oh, wait, that’s not that far. She could walk, if she had the stamina for it. 

Twenty minutes later, Lysithea is standing outside a two-story, brick-faced apartment complex that looks like it had been built thirty years ago and never renovated. So, basically, like any poor grad student accommodation on the planet. She approaches a door with the chipped brass-plated number ‘2-A.’ 

In one hand she holds a grocery bag, and in the other she triple-checks her phone to make sure this is the right place. Stuffing her phone into her pocket, Lysithea knocks. 

Hilda answers the door draped in a blanket like a maudlin empress surveying her fallen nation. Her normally immaculate appearance has been tossed out with the bathwater. There are dark circles beneath her eyes, and her hair is a mess. The apartment beyond is cast all in shadow. The curtains are drawn, and Lysithea can't make out anything beyond Hilda except clutter and darkness.

“Hey,” Hilda croaks, trying to add a bit of her usual sing-song emphasis but instead dissolving into a fit of coughing. 

Lysithea thinks of a dozen lies and platitudes she should say, but what comes out is: “You look terrible.” 

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” Hilda chuckles, and leans in the doorway. “Do you got the goods, dealer?”

Lysithea holds up the grocery bag filled with two large plastic bottles of sparkling lemonade. “Only the finest.” 

“You’re a saint,” Hilda mumbles as she takes the grocery bag and peers inside. “I could seriously kiss you right now.”

At that, Lysithea takes a step back. “No, thank you. Keep your nasty virus to yourself.”

“Guess that means you don’t want to come in, then.”

Lysithea is surprised when she hears herself say, “Next time.”

Even Hilda looks a bit shocked, though it’s difficult to tell. Normally she’s more expressive than this. She mustn’t have the energy to emote, when sick. 

Still, she gamely cracks a smile, and waves Lysithea away. “Next time, then. Go on, now. Shoo. Before you get my nasty virus.” 

“Will I see you tomorrow?” Lysithea asks as she steps away.

“I’ll be lecturing in the morning, and then coming back to bed,” Hilda says, though she sounds like she should be organising her casket arrangements rather than teach right now. 

“Oh,” Lysithea says. She tries not to let the disappointment show, and she thinks she does a decent job of hiding that sort of thing. At least, she should be, given her history. 

“But you can buy me a hot drink before I go home.” Hilda offers that like it’s some sort of prize to be won. 

Lysithea frowns. “Is my offering of soda inadequate for Her Highness?”

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” Hilda winks and shuts the door. 

* * *

Lysithea brings the newspaper, but not the coffee. It’s 7:04am, and the students of Organic Chemistry II have let themselves into the lecture theatre six minutes ago. Lysithea sits in the back corner, trying to get as much distance as possible between herself and any undergrads who might mistake her for one of their flock. None of them seem to pay her any mind. It’s too early for anything but using their bags as pillows and trying to sneak in an extra few minutes of sleep before their professor arrives. 

Exactly nine minutes after the class was meant to start, the double doors to the lecture theatre swing open, and Hilda walks inside. Her heeled boots clack with every step, announcing her presence.

"Sorry I'm late." Hilda drops into the chair at the head of the classroom beside the podium. "I didn't want to come."

She is wearing enormous pink-lensed sunglasses that shield her eyes from view. A dark-washed scarf is wrapped around her neck and shoulders like a shawl, and the total effect makes her look like a celebrity trying to escape the paparazzi. She props her feet atop the table, and waves to the classroom at large without actually looking at anyone. “Pop quiz.”

The class gives out a collective groan of despair. 

Hilda ignores them. She pulls out her cellphone. For a brief moment, Lysithea thinks that Hilda is just going text through the entire lecture, but then the projector screen descends from the ceiling behind her, and the projector itself flickers to life. 

Hilda gives her phone a few idle taps, and a slideshow quiz appears on the screen. “You have twenty minutes.” She tosses her phone to the table. “Go.” 

The students are scrambling for spare paper from their notebooks. Some of them exchange blank pages in a flurry of movement, before they are all hunched over their desks, silent but for the scratch of pens against paper. 

Lysithea reads the list of questions on the screen. They are hard, but not impossible. In their shoes, Lysithea would have aced the quiz. Then again, Lysithea had been a model student that two universities had fought over for the grant money that came tethered to her thesis project. It takes these students the full twenty minutes, and even then a few of them are scrambling for answers and scratching their heads.

Hilda’s phone alarm chirps, and all of the students put their pens down like well-trained Pavlovian subjects. On the other hand, Hilda does not move at all. Her arms are crossed, and most of her face is either hidden by scarf or sunglasses. 

She is, Lysithea realises, fast asleep. 

“Professor Goneril?” one of the students in the front row hazards. Lysithea recognises the student from her own class, a quiet girl by the name of Flayn, related to Seteth, the university’s chaplain. 

At the sound of her title, Hilda’s head jerks. She lowers her feet to the ground, and sits upright. She pushes her sunglasses partially up her face so that she can rub at her eyes with the heel of her palm. From here, Lysithea can see that while Hilda looks far better than their last encounter at her apartment, she still looks like death warmed over. 

Hilda cranes her neck to peer at the clock on the wall, and says, “Turn ‘em in. And if you cheated, I’ll know.”

All of the students exchange glances, then stand to approach her table and deposit their sheets of paper at her feet. 

One of the students lowers his head to whisper to his neighbor. “Do you think she has the place bugged?”

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” his friend replies under his breath. 

Lysithea rolls her eyes, and says, “No. It’s because I’m here, and I would tell her.” 

The two nearly jump out of their skin. One of them squints at her. “Aren’t you a student from Mathematical Methods for Physical Sciences?” 

Lysithea gives him her very best glower. “I’m the professor of that course.” 

Both their eyes widen, and they shuffle away towards the front of the classroom. 

The lecture as a whole is supposed to last two hours. Hilda only takes an hour and a half, and lets everyone go early. Throughout the entire thing, Lysithea chips away at the crossword to very little effect, and grinds her teeth at the back of the class. 

She herself has to prepare pages and pages of carefully labelled and researched notes every week for her own lectures, and even then she always feels like she is scrambling to use up her total time. If she lets the students out five minutes early, it’s like she’s failed in her duty. Hilda on the other hand breezes through the course content like she wrote the fucking book. 

And she definitely didn’t write the book. Lysithea checked. 

To add insult to injury, Hilda’s slides have an unparalleled clarity that make Lysithea green with envy. The students nod their heads, and type up notes on their laptops. When they raise their hands with questions, Hilda answers breezily and efficiently from her seat despite her lingering cold, checking her fingernails and sometimes even tapping her phone to another pre-prepared slide as though she had expected just that question to pop up during the lecture. 

Whenever Lysithea got a question from her students, she would need to work off the spike of adrenaline by drawing out the answer too small on the whiteboard. 

By the end, Lysithea is fuming. She hasn’t finished the crossword, and she is feeling thoroughly outclassed. 

It’s 8:31, and the students are packing up their bags to leave. Some of them are brave enough to approach Hilda like they're approaching a lazy queen sprawled upon her sumptuous plastic throne. Flayn is among them. Lysithea hovers near the exit, clutching her newspaper, while Hilda holds court, waiting. Flayn is the last student to leave, waving at Lysithea, who returns the gesture with a forced grimace. 

Hilda is slinging her designer black bag over her shoulder as she walks towards Lysithea. “Hi! Miss me much?”

Hilda smiles at her, and all of those ugly feelings melt away like a snowbank in late spring. 

“As if,” Lysithea says, already turning to walk towards the nearby cafe down the hall and to the right. 

She orders their usual, but Hilda interrupts to get a lemon honey and ginger tea for herself instead. They sit near the windows, and Lysithea tosses down the newspaper with a scowl.

Hilda sips at her tea. “Someone’s feeling grumpy this morning. What’s wrong? Couldn’t finish the crossword without me?”

“No! I mean -- that’s besides the point!” Lysithea lifts her chin and says, indignant, “One of your students mistook me for an undergrad.”

Rather than laugh, Hilda sticks out her tongue as though at a bad taste. “If that happened to me, I would literally die.”

Lysithea nods. This is the reaction she had been expecting at so grave a transgression.

And then, Hilda asks the worst possible question. “How old are you anyway?”

“Twenty-four.”

Hilda splutters, and has to put down her tea in order to cough into the crook of her elbow. Lysithea can feel her face heating up while Hilda collects herself. 

"Oh my god." Hilda’s face is painted with horror, "Twenty-four? When did you start undergrad? As a foetus?"

Lysithea straightens in her seat, and answers primly, "I was sixteen, thank you very much."

"Twenty-four." Hilda repeats with a shudder. "No wonder. I have students that age. Gross."

Lysithea bristles. _ "Excuse me?" _

"Oh, I didn’t mean you. I just had an intrusive thought about dating a student, and had the instinctive urge to dry-heave." Hilda flutters her hand at the base of her throat as if she’s going to be sick. 

"I’m not one of your students!"

"Thank god," Hilda mutters. 

"I may not have my PhD yet, but we are still colleagues! And I'll have you know that I am very dateable!"

At that, Hilda’s eyebrows launch themselves over the rims of her sunglasses. "I never thought you weren't."

"Well _ \- good!” _ Lysithea crosses her arms with a huff, and leans back in her chair. “Because I am! I’m great at -” she struggles for what exactly to say, but is too obstinate to give up, and ends up with, “- being available! For dating!” 

Hilda is biting her lower lip as if she’s desperately trying not to laugh. Lysithea wishes she could see her eyes; it would be much easier to tell what kind of expression Hilda was wearing if she could see her eyes. It certainly doesn’t help that her own face is aflame; she just knows that her pale complexion will have gone ruddy with embarrassment. 

“Glad to hear it,” Hilda drawls, before tilting her head back to drain what remains of her tea. Meanwhile Lysithea clears her throat, and takes an extra large gulp of her hot chocolate. 

Dropping her now empty takeaway cup onto the table, Hilda pushes her chair back. “Thanks for the tea. I’m off to bed to show this virus who’s boss.”

“Yeah. Sure. No problem.” 

Lysithea can still feel the flush in her cheeks. It doesn’t get any better when Hilda lowers her sunglasses just enough to peer over them at Lysithea and flash her a smile.

“See you Monday,” Hilda says, and it’s not a question. She pushes her sunglasses back into place, and swings her bag over her shoulder. 

Then, she pauses. She reaches out, and Lysithea leans back slightly in her seat, but not before Hilda has tapped the tip of her nose.

“You’ve got cocoa on your nose.” Hilda shows Lysithea her finger, which does indeed have a smidge of cocoa powder from the hot chocolate. With a smile, Hilda turns and strides away with far more flounce in her step than a sick woman should be able to achieve. 

Lysithea sits, frozen in place. Then, realising she is staring, she swipes furiously at her face for any residual cocoa powder. When she’s finished, Hilda is long gone. 


	2. Chapter 2

The elevators are broken. All of them. Lysithea stands on the ground floor with Hilda, staring at the yellow tape suspended over each of the elevator doors. Her heart sinks in her chest, and her grip slackens on her coffee. 

"Can you believe this?" Hilda whines, punctuating her words with a stomp of her foot on the ground. "Do they expect us to clamber up Everest to get to our offices every day? What bullshit!"

"It's only seven floors." Even as Lysithea says it, she is furiously calculating how many steps that would entail.

How many steps were there per flight of stairs on average? Twenty-five? Thirty? She usually starts panting at around thirty, and has to take a break at forty. Edelgard always knew to take long walks around cities or parks with extra breaks. Lysithea didn’t know how many times she would have to stop while climbing seven whole flights of stairs. 

"Maybe we can work from some ground floor offices," Hilda muses, taking a contemplative sip of the coffee Lysithea had brought her that morning. "I could kick Leonie out of the gym office space, and we could work from there instead? It’ll smell, but it’ll just be for this week. Until they get the elevators up and running."

It's tempting. It really is. And Lysithea is ashamed of herself for seriously considering letting Hilda do just that. 

Eventually however, Lysithea sighs. "No. We should just suck it up, and walk up the stairs."

Hilda whines again, but she's already trudging towards the nearby door marked with the symbol for stairs. 

"This is so inconvenient!" Hilda groans, pushing the door open and holding it until Lysithea has joined her. "And, you know what? Leonie wouldn't even mind! I mean, yeah, okay. She would mind. But I could make a great sales pitch about how it's just turning every day into leg day for the next week. She might buy that!"

Hilda continues on in that vein, and Lysithea listens with only half an ear. The stairs extend ahead of her, looming like a snow-capped peak, except these are gilded in white linoleum. The chromed handrails gleam with the sweat of too many generations of hands passing over them. Lysithea is reluctant to touch them, but knows she will have to eventually. 

On the other hand, Hilda has already begun the climb. She is still talking, and has made it halfway up the first set of stairs before Lysithea can gather enough courage to even start. 

The first floor passes without much issue. Lysithea tries telling herself that it won't be so bad; she can do this. Hilda's constant chatter acts like a balm. Her presence is almost soothing, in and of itself. 

The second floor is where Lysithea's hubris realises its potential. Her breath has grown laboured. She reaches for the handrail. Hilda is ahead of her by a good distance, but they're still on the same set of stairs together at least. 

By the third floor, Lysithea feels an all too familiar twinge in her chest.

By the fourth floor, Hilda's voice fades into a murmur of white noise, like static. 

By the fifth floor, Lysithea drops her coffee. She doesn't mean to. Her hands are trembling uncontrollably, and the takeaway cup slips from her fingers. The coffee goes splattering all over her shoes and black stockings. The cup tumbles down the stairs until it rolls to a halt and dribbles dark foam. 

Hilda's voice stops, and an awful silence descends over the fifth floor staircase. Lysithea is panting. She is bent over her knees, and clutching the handrail like it's a buoy keeping her afloat. 

"Are you alright?"

"Y-Yeah," Lysithea lies. She turns and sinks to the ground so that she is seated on the step she had just been standing on. She doesn't even notice that she's sitting in some of the coffee spill until it's too late, and by then she can't bring herself to care. 

Hilda's boots clack against the ground. She comes to stand behind Lysithea, and for a brief moment, Lysithea feels fear lance through her at the thought of what expression Hilda might be wearing. 

Finally, Hilda sits down beside her with a huff -- on the other side so as to not sit in the coffee. "Geesh," she says. "You listened to my moaning this whole time, when you legit were on the point of, like, dying behind me?"

Lysithea leans her head against the railing, relishing the cool press of metal against her forehead. "At this point, I'm used to listening to your moaning by now."

Hilda nudges their shoulders together to get Lysithea’s attention, and then wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. "That's what she said."

With a groan, Lysithea shoves weakly at Hilda’s shoulder. "Shut the fuck up. You have the humour of a twelve year old boy."

In answer, Hilda wordlessly hands Lysithea her coffee cup, and then stands. She descends to the step just in front of Lysithea, and turns so that her back is facing her. Hilda pats herself on the shoulder. "Come on, then. Hop on and hold tight, spider-monkey."

Lysithea glares at Hilda’s back. "You did _ not _just make a Twilight reference."

"I sure did. Now either hop on, or I'll leave you to crawl the last two floors by yourself. Up to you."

Lysithea purses her lips. She considers her options. Sighing, she clutches the coffee cup in one hand and wraps her other arm around Hilda's neck. She feels Hilda's hands slide under her knees as she crawls atop her back. When Hilda straightens, there’s a flex of muscle all along her back and shoulders. For all that however Lysithea is surprised at how soft she is. 

"If you tell anyone about this," Lysithea says, her voice dangerously low in Hilda's ear, "I'll kill you, and they will never find your body."

"How dare you threaten me with a good time."

Hilda jostles Lysithea a little to get her resting just so against her back, before turning around and marching up the stairs once more. As she does so, she steps around the spilled coffee so as to not get any on her designer boots. 

“I’ll need to give the janitorial staff a gift,” Lysithea mumbles against Hilda’s spine. 

“Cyril likes flowers. Little white ones that come in bouquets. Baby’s breath, or whatever they’re called. Which suits him, actually; he’s such a baby-faced guy.”

Lysithea lifts her head slightly to frown at the slope of Hilda’s cheek. “How on earth do you know that?”

Hilda flashes Lysithea a sly grin over her shoulder. “I make a point of being on excellent terms with janitorial staff wherever I work.” 

“Of course you do.”

The last two floors to their offices pass without incident. Apart from the fact that Lysithea can’t help but notice that Hilda smells nice. Really nice. So nice, Lysithea almost asks what perfume she wears, but keeps her mouth shut instead and demands to be put down the moment Hilda carries her up that last step. 

* * *

The elevators are down for the entire week. Everyday of that week, Hilda gives her a piggyback ride up the stairs. And everyday of that week, Hilda complains about the university’s health and safety policies.

“Seriously,” she says on Thursday for the fourth time, “you should complain to Judith about this. If you don’t, then I will.”

Lysithea huffs against Hilda’s shoulder blade. “I doubt the head of the biosciences department can make the university contractors work any faster.”

“No, but she can talk to Rhea on your behalf. Duh!"

"And what's the Dean supposed to do about it? Magically make the elevators work again?"

"Maybe! You don't know!" Hilda grouses, and she is excellent at grousing. “If nothing else, they should review their disability services. Or install a pulley system for you. Bucket and rope, that kind of thing.”

“Your thoughtfulness is as touching as ever,” Lysithea says dryly. 

“Or I could just -” Hilda pretends to drop her, loosening her grip beneath Lysithea’s knees.

With a yelp, Lysithea wraps her arms more tightly around Hilda’s neck. “No! I take it back! _ I take it back!” _

“That’s what I thought. Did Cyril like the flowers, by the way?”

They have resumed the climb, and Lysithea relaxes fractionally, safe in the knowledge that Hilda would not have actually abandoned her on the third floor stairwell. “He did. He still has them in a vase, I think.”

“Told you so!” Hilda says in that sing-song tone of hers.

“You’re insufferable. You know that?”

“You love it."

"I do not."

"And yet you continue to hang out with me. So, who's really at fault here, huh? Checkmate."

"That's -!" Lysithea splutters. "- completely illogical! How is it my fault that you tricked me into hanging out with you?”

“What do you mean _ ‘tricked you’?” _

“You heard me.”

“Uh, we had a deal. That’s not tricking. Besides,” Hilda has to pause on the fifth floor landing to hike Lysithea a little further up her back, “You can’t steal a crossword in a communal newspaper. It’s literally for everyone to use.”

“Just because we’re friends doesn’t mean you can’t steal from a communal resource. That’s the definition of the Tragedy of the Commons.”

“So, you admit it? We’re friends?”

Lysithea snorts, and says sarcastically, “No, I prefer to let my nemesis carry me up flights of stairs every day.”

“Your nemesis sounds like a really cool gal. With amazing eyeliner. And impeccable taste in clothes.”

“And an ego the size of a planet,” Lysithea adds to the list.

Hilda ignores that comment. “You should totally let her give you a makeover.”

“Over my dead body.”

Hilda laughs, and the sound makes Lysithea’s stomach fizz like she’s had too much sparkling lemonade. 

It’s a good thing Edelgard and Hilda don’t know one another, Lysithea thinks. If Edelgard found out about this whole Almost-Fainting-on-the-University-Staircase (A.F.U.S.) debacle, she would be on the first flight over to scold Lysithea in person for being so careless. And Lysithea isn’t sure she could handle both Edelgard and Hilda in the same place at the same time.

* * *

Edelgard’s monthly care package arrives in the office on the same day that Lysithea finally manages to arrange a meeting with her main supervisor. She enters Tomas' office, excited to finally get some guidance on all the hard work she's put into her thesis over the last few months, only to leave twenty minutes later with more questions than answers.

He is nothing like how he’d acted when she was still being courted by the university before this whole process began. Back then, Tomas had been charming, always with a kind smile and a twinkle in his eye. Now, he jabs his finger at her data charts and refuses to accept any answers she gives him regardless of how many different ways she explains the results. 

Lysithea is wandering listlessly back to her own office, cradling the latest drafted chapter of her thesis, when she sees Hilda striding towards her down the hallway.

"Hey! Lysithea!" Hilda holds up an enormous cardboard box that she’s carrying. "You got a package in the mail! And judging by the weight, your family sent you -” she lifts the box with both hands. “- a shipment of lead! It’s your lucky day."

"Oh," Lysithea feels her spirits stir somewhat at the sight of the package. "My friend sends me those every other month. It's probably full of food and new clothes."

At that, Hilda's eyes light up, the way they did when she figured out a crossword clue, or when they are walking down the street and she saw a pretty girl wearing an outfit she admired. “Well, I gotta see what’s in it now. Hang on -” her brow furrows slightly, and she looks down at the package. “A friend sends you gifts nearly every month?”

“Edelgard has known me since I was five. We’re basically siblings,” Lysithea says by way of explanation. 

The furrow in Hilda’s brow disappears. “Aww. That’s so cute!” 

Lysithea hums in wordless agreement. Normally, whenever Hilda called her ‘cute’ Lysithea would reprimand her, but she can’t be bothered today. She tries to slip past Hilda, and slope into her office for a much needed sulk, but Hilda steps in her way. 

“Bad meeting?” Hilda asks, and thankfully she has lowered her voice. 

The pages of the thesis chapter crinkle beneath Lysithea’s fingers. Even looking at all of Tomas’ notes scrawled across the first page makes her feel sick to her stomach. “He thinks the data is insufficient, and doesn’t correspond strongly enough with the overall thesis statement.”

Hilda frowns. “Then why didn’t he say anything at the time. You gathered it a year ago, yeah?”

“That’s what I said!” Lysithea bursts out, before ducking her head and lowering her voice to a surly mutter. “And Hanneman thinks the data set is fine, but whenever I point that out, Tomas just gets mad and reminds me that Hanneman isn’t my main supervisor.” 

“Hmm.”

For a moment that is Hilda’s only response. She shifts the box in her arms in order to reach up with one hand and lower her sunglasses from where they’re perched atop her head. Then, she nudges Lysithea towards the elevators with her shoulder. “C’mon. Forget Tomas. We’re going to lunch, and you’re going to open this great big box, and it’ll cheer you right up.”

“You’re only saying that because you want to know what’s in the box, aren’t you?” 

“I’m insulted you would even think that of me.” Hilda sniffs, then drums her fingers in a playful rhythm against the box in question. “It’s only part of the reason.”

“And what’s the other part?” Lysithea asks.

“I’m a woman of grace and mystery. You’ll just have to embrace that,” Hilda says as she lifts her leg to hit the button that calls the elevator with the toe of her boot. 

They go to lunch at a place down the road, because both of them are tired of the downstairs cafe, and if they have to order the same croissant sandwiches again one of them is going to scream. Hilda grabs a table outside in the hopes that they can enjoy the last good day of fall before the cold rainy season hits. The sun is watery, but Hilda drags the table a bit further from the shade, and Lysithea moves the chairs. 

They order, and their drinks come out. Hilda barely lets Lysithea take a sip before she places the package atop the table and all but bounces with anticipation in her seat.

"Looking at the two of us, nobody would guess that you're the childish one," Lysithea says. She grabs up a knife from the cutlery placed out for them, and starts to cut through the copious amounts of tape that Edelgard had used to wrap the box. 

"You say that, but I wish I looked as adorable as you." 

Lysithea pauses to glare at Hilda, but it sloughs off her like water from a duck's back. Lysithea continues cutting until she can finally prise the box open.

Predictably, Edelgard has stuffed the box full of more goodies than Lysithea could possibly consume or wear in half a year. Lysithea immediately goes for a smaller package of her favourite cookies, which have been padded with an assortment of clothes wrapped in expensive-looking tissue paper and bound in ribbon. 

She never recognised the labels of the clothing or accessories, but Lysithea always recognised the sweets. 

“Oh, wow,” Hilda breathes, as Lysithea peels back the wrapping of a biscuit elaborately painted with frosting. 

Closing her eyes, Lysithea sighs with pleasure as she takes that first bite. When she opens her eyes again, it’s to find Hilda watching her closely. "Do you want some? I thought you said I had too much of a sweet tooth for your tastes."

"Yeah, well, bring on the diabetes because those look amazing."

With a sigh, Lysithea holds out the biscuit she has already taken a bite of, but instead of taking it from her hand, Hilda leans over the table. She takes an extra big bite, so that when she leans back in her seat she triumphantly holds half of the biscuit in her mouth. Lysithea just rolls her eyes. If it were any other occasion, Lysithea would have given her a scolding, but even a glance into the box clearly shows that she won’t be running out of confectionaries any time soon. 

“Okay, what else you got, Lysithea’s friend?” Hilda asks the absent El, pulling the box towards her side of the table to sift through its contents. 

Lysithea finishes off the cookie, and is reaching for another when she stops. Hilda has gone stock still. Her mouth hangs slightly open. 

“What is it?” Lysithea asks.

Hilda does not immediately answer. She pulls off her sunglasses, and places them on the table, but her eyes never leave the box’s contents. She takes out one of the carefully lined pieces of clothing as though it’s made of gold dust and dreams. When she tugs the ribbon free, the gauzy paper falls open to reveal a black t-shirt splashed with bold red lettering. 

Hilda picks up the t-shirt to gaze at it in shock. There are dozens of other pieces of clothing similarly wrapped and stashed in the box. Lysithea doesn’t see what all the fuss is about. 

“Are you telling me,” Hilda says slowly, and her voice climbs with every word, “that this whole time, you had an uber rich childhood friend who sends you Valentino via air freight? _ Valentino?” _

“Yes?” Lysithea mumbles, wondering if this is some sort of trick question. “Is that a good brand, or something?”

She knows it’s a dumb question the moment it leaves her mouth. Hilda lowers the t-shirt just enough to stare at her over it. “Why don’t I ever see you wearing this stuff?!” 

“It’s -! It’s not really my style,” Lysithea says lamely.

_ “Not your -!” _ Hilda has to close her eyes and calm herself with a deep breath. Then, she starts folding everything back perfectly the way it was. “You’re paying for lunch. Consider it amends for your sins.”

“You can have the clothes, if you want?” Lysithea offers, picking up her soda. 

“You think I could fit into this? Look at these, and then look at your spaghetti arms.” For emphasis, Hilda lifts one of her own arms and pokes at the bulge of muscle at her shoulder. 

Lysithea is taking a sip from her drink, and makes an exasperated noise at the back of her throat. She puts the glass down. “You _ know _I can’t go to the gym. I can barely walk five blocks without needing to sit down.”

“At least tell me what you do with all the clothes your mystery millionaire sends you.” 

Lysithea worries her lower lip between her teeth. Hilda gives her a look, and she admits with a wince, “I donate them to a shelter in town.” 

Hilda buries her face into the shirt she had just folded, and muffles a sound halfway between a scream and a sob in the fabric. 

Tentatively, Lysithea reaches across the table to pat the top of Hilda’s head. 

Hilda’s voice is muted through the shirt. “You’re going to be the death of me.” 

Lysithea pats her head some more. “There, there.” 

They have to clear the table, because the waiter is descending upon them with his arms laden with plates. Hilda swipes one of Lysithea fries before Lysithea can even reach for the condiments. 

“Okay, here’s the deal -” Hilda starts, but winces. “Ow! Those are hot!” 

“I feel less than zero sympathy for you right now.” 

“Fair. But you’ll sing a different tune when you hear of my super cool new deal.” Hilda snags another fry, avoiding Lysithea’s hand swatting down at her wrist. “I’ll read your latest thesis draft and give you feedback and all that jazz, if you do the same for an article I’ve just finished. You can come over to my place this weekend, and we’ll trade. It’ll be fun.” 

Lysithea places the condiment bottle aside, and picks up her fork and knife. “Why is everything always a trade with you?”

“All relationships should be equal and fair.”

Such a frank answer gives Lysithea pause. 

And then Hilda continues, “You know. The division of labour in society. Eat the rich.”

Lysithea aims a flat stare at her. “You’re already eating my lunch _ and _my care package.”

Hilda grabs another one of Lysithea’s fries, pops it into her mouth, and winks. 

* * *

On Saturday evening, Hilda flings open the door to her apartment the moment Lysithea knocks. Lysithea hadn’t known what was an appropriate gift for her hostess, or if her hostess even technically required a gift, or if bringing Hilda soda when she was sick constituted a suitable substitution. In the end, she had defaulted to the latter of the options, and is now being dragged into Hilda’s apartment, empty-handed. 

If Hilda notices, she doesn’t show it. She shuts the front door behind them, and gestures vaguely to the apartment. “Welcome to my lair or whatever.”

On Lysithea’s previous visit, the curtains had been drawn and the lights dimmed so she couldn’t see anything apart from the impression of shapes. And perhaps it would have been better if that had remained the case. 

"Wow." Lysithea looks around at the wreckage. "Your place sure is...even messier than your office."

"Organised chaos, my brother calls it."

"Your brother is very kind."

"I think so, too. You want cider? I bought cider." Even without Lysithea's answer, Hilda is heading towards the kitchen. 

"I don't really drink much," Lysithea admits, picking her way carefully across the floor after Hilda so she doesn’t step on anything. 

"Oh, that's alright. You don't have to. I have soda, too!"

Lysithea blinks in surprise at Hilda's response, which had been immediate. In most social situations, Lysithea's adversion to alcohol was met with passive aggressive disdain or wheedling for her to join in the revelry. Hilda on the other hand, just starts pulling out various two litre bottles of sparkling lemonade and ginger ales, and arranging them on the counter in a single file formation like soldiers on parade. 

"I've got Schweppes. I've got Bundaberg. I've got Sprite. I've got Canada Dry. I’ve got San Pellegrino. I’ve got Perrier. I’ve got this new L&P stuff that my brother had shipped in from Australia or something, which I’ve been dying to try. Pick your poison."

Approaching the counter, Lysithea eyes the various bottles. Hilda has also pulled out a cider for herself, and is rustling around in a drawer for a bottle opener. Hesitantly, Lysithea picks up the cider and turns the bottle over in her hands. The glass is cold and misty from its time spent in the fridge. She goes to the back label and runs her thumb over the 2.4% ABV lettering. 

She can't even recall the last time she had alcohol. No, wait. That’s a lie. It had been on her eighteenth birthday. She had been allowed a single glass of champagne. It had a fresh strawberry in it, fizzing away at the bottom of the glass, and had tasted like dry unsweetened soda. 

Lysithea holds the bottle of cider out to Hilda, who has finally found the bottle opener in her messy drawer of various cutlery, cooking knives, and spatulas. "Actually, I've changed my mind. I'll have one of these."

Slowly, Hilda takes the cider, and prises the cap free. “You sure?” She tosses the cap onto the counter, where it rattles around before settling in place. "Seriously, it's not a problem. No pressure. We're not, like, going out or anything. It's just us here, so -"

"This is fine. Thanks." Lysithea takes the bottle back, but doesn't immediately take a drink. She hesitates, and re-thinks her actions. 

With a shrug, Hilda turns to the fridge to pull out another cider for herself. "Alright. Up to you."

Switching the cold bottle into her off hand, Lysithea tugs at the strap of her bag over her shoulder to a more comfortable angle so that it doesn't dig into her skin. "So, uh - where are we doing this? Here?"

She nods pointedly to the kitchen table, which is piled high with grocery bags, library books, articles, makeup, empty mason jars, full mason jars, beads, jewelry, craft items, wire in various metals such as gold and silver and copper. Lysithea wanders closer to the table, clutching her cider. 

"You," she tilts her head to one side, "make jewelry?"

"Yup. It’s a hobby of mine." Hilda joins her. She puts down her own open bottle of cider, and picks up what Lysithea had originally thought was a necklace. She presses it to Lysithea's chest. "This sweater clip would look good on you by the way. Especially with one of those grandma cardigans you like so much. You should take it."

Hilda shoves the sweater clip into Lysithea’s free hand before she can complain.

"They're not _ 'grandma cardigans.'" _ Lysithea grouses. "They're just _ my _ cardigans."

"And you look very cute in them. You'll look even cuter wearing this. If you don’t want to wear the sweater clip with the cardigan, you can just hook them into the tips of your collars. Very chic right now. Or - ooh!" Hilda dives into one of the grocery bags, pawing through its contents. "I have a brooch in here that would make you look like some sort of Edwardian porcelain doll."

Lysithea scrunches up her nose. "No, thank you."

"No, no! I meant it in a good way!"

"I'm sure you did. But my answer is the same."

Hilda whines, but eventually relents. "Fine. Keep the sweater clip though. And don’t you _ dare _donate it to a shelter!"

For a moment, Lysithea considers denying that request. Instead, she runs the fine gold chain between her fingers. Two clips hang from each end of the chain, molded from gold into the shape of little decorative pinecones with ivy leaves. 

Hilda is right. They _ would _ look good with her cardigans. And she _ does _ like cardigans...

"Thanks." Lysithea puts the sweater clip into a compartment of her bag, so that she won't forget that it's there. "So, can we clear this table, or -?"

Suddenly, Hilda stands between Lysithea and the table as if guarding her firstborn child from an evil witch out for blood. "No way! Don't touch anything here."

Lysithea crosses her arms as well as she could for someone holding a glass bottle. "What the hell do you think I'm going to do? It’s not like I can make it worse than it already is!"

"It's perfect! I know exactly where everything is!"

"Oh, yeah?" Lysithea lifts her chin, and issues the challenge: "Find me a pair of scissors."

Immediately, Hilda reaches into a bag and pulls out a pair of gleaming sewing scissors. The nice kind. The kind that Lysithea's mother would have yelled at her for touching as a child.

Sticking out her lower lip, Lysithea mumbles, "Yeah, ok. Fine."

Hilda waggles the scissors at her. "You're extra cute when you pout."

"Call me cute again, and I'm dumping this cider over your head."

At that, Hilda makes a face, but says nothing. She simply sticks the scissors back into the bag and out of sight. 

"I think I saw a couch under all the rubble of your living room," Lysithea says. But as soon as she takes a step towards the living room, Hilda interrupts. 

“Okay, I know we’re still new to this friendship thing, but we need to make one thing clear. All of this?” Hilda gestures towards the apartment in general. “Just _ looks _ messy, alright? I have a system.” 

Now, that, finally was something Lysithea could understand. She had a Routine, after all. Capital 'R'. And it sounded like Hilda's system came with its own capital letter, too.

"Please don't tell me we have to sit on the ground for this." Lysithea looks down at the kitchen floor. While cluttered just like everything else in the apartment, at least the floor appears clean. Hilda obviously washed stuff, she just didn't tidy it. 

In answer, Hilda picks up her cider and tilts the bottle towards the kitchen exit. "This way.” 

Hilda leads her not towards the living room, but towards her bedroom. When Lysithea realises what is happening, she freezes. 

"Uh -" Lysithea says eloquently. 

Hilda stops in the doorway to her bedroom, and shoots a puzzled glance over her shoulder. "Huh? What's wrong?"

Lysithea looks down at the cider in their hands, then at the bedroom beyond; she can’t meet Hilda’s gaze. She can feel her cheeks warming up, and knows her face must be going bright red. 

Hilda's eyes widen. "Oh! _ Oh! _ No, it’s -” She laughs, and Lysithea has never known Hilda to be anything but the epitome of confidence, but she sounds slightly nervous now. “It’s not like that. It totally could be like that, but it’s not like that. Tonight, there’s no funny business."

Even so, Lysithea squints at Hilda in suspicion. 

"I swear!" Hilda draws an 'X' over her chest with her free hand. "Cross my heart, and hope to die."

"I am starting to think you're actually two twelve year olds in a designer trench coat," Lysithea says. "How old are you, really?"

"Thirty this year."

Lysithea rocks back on her heels. "You're barely even thirty, and you were giving me shit for being twenty-four a few weeks ago?"

"There's a big difference between thirty and twenty-four. Six whole years difference, to be exact."

"Congratulations. You can count. Your brother must be so proud."

Hilda makes a rude gesture with her fingers, then walks further into her bedroom. "Don't even talk to me about it. The idea of turning thirty has seriously been playing havoc with my nerves. I'm going to be middle aged soon."

"Tragic," Lysithea drawls, following her inside.

"I'm being serious! I'm _ ancient! _ I could keel over at any second. You're going to have to put me into one of those old folk’s home, where they’ll dress me in scuffed kitten heels and outdated Chanel."

“I promise to polish your kitten heels for you when your crippling arthritis kicks in.” 

Hilda’s expression brightens. “Really?”

“No.”

“Tease.”

Hilda flops onto her bed. It's the only piece of furniture in the room that doesn't have mountains of stuff piled atop it. The chest of draws in the corner is almost entirely hidden beneath the sheer quantity of jewelry that Hilda owns. There's a work station that holds a laptop and a few charging cables, along with heaps of stray electronic devices that Lysithea can't even name. Lysithea would have guessed the table got some use, but for the fact that the chair in front of it is a sand-dune made of clean clothes that Hilda hasn't gotten around to putting away. 

The closet door is open, and shoes are spilling out in all directions. Innumerable jackets seem to be multiplying inside. More unopened shoe boxes teeter towards the ceiling. There's a narrow path between the shoes scattered along the floor that leads to the bathroom door, which is partially ajar. 

When Hilda jumps atop the bed, she bounces twice. She kicks her boots off and flings them in the vague direction of the closet, where they ricochet off the closet door. She places her bottle of cider onto the bedside table, and swaps it for a tablet that was charging there. She flicks the tablet on, and keys in the passcode.

When Lysithea still hasn't moved from her place in the doorway, Hilda glances up at her. "Well?" She grabs a pillow and makes a show of fluffing it up and propping it on the wall beside her, where she gestures to it as though to a throne. "Make yourself at home."

Slowly, Lysithea makes her way over to the bed. Where Hilda had jumped, Lysithea clambers. She nearly spills her cider, and has to switch it between hands to keep from making a mess of the pink and white striped sheets, which are surprisingly soft. They smell like clean laundry and Hilda's perfume.

She shoves that thought aside brusquely. Clearing her throat, Lysithea slips her work bag from her shoulder and digs through it for her laptop. 

Something warm touches the hand holding her bottle, and Lysithea nearly jerks away before she realises that Hilda is taking the cider from her so that she can shuffle around in her bag without spilling anything. 

"Thanks," Lysithea mumbles, letting Hilda take the bottle for a second.

"Sure thing." Hilda hands the cider back the moment Lysithea has set up the computer on her lap. 

Between the two of them holding the bottle, the cider has begun to warm in their grasps. Lysithea takes a tentative first sip. It's sweet, pear-flavoured, and only has the mildest hint of alcohol. She takes another sip, and then balances it between her legs so that she can still type on her laptop.

“Alright, did you email me your article?”

“Already in your inbox since eleven this morning.” 

Hilda lounges back on her own pillow, sprawling over a good portion of the bed while she, presumably, opens Lysithea’s thesis on her tablet. She had summoned a tablet stylus from somewhere, and is jotting down notes directly onto the screen. 

Bracing herself with another swig of cider, Lysithea clicks on Hilda’s email, and gets to work. 

The silence only lasts for a few minutes, before Hilda’s tablet starts playing music, and she hums along. Lysithea purses her lips, but does not tell her to stop. The additional noise and lyrics means she has to read more slowly for full comprehension. Lysithea finishes her cider, and sets it on the bedside table beside Hilda’s now empty bottle. 

While they work, Hilda contorts herself into a number of poses on the bed. At one point she lies flat on her stomach, and swings her feet in the air. At another, she’s on her back with her head hanging off the edge, holding the tablet up and reading upsidedown. Later still, she sprawls on her side like she’s seated at some ancient Graecian banquet, her head propped on her hand, tapping along with her stylus to the rhythm of whatever pop song is playing.

Eventually, Hilda complains about wanting snacks, and bounces off the bed in search of something in the kitchen. 

She returns with a bag of potato chips, and the invitation, “C’mon. It’s been like two hours. It’s break time.”

Lysithea is still scrolling through Hilda’s article, arduously checking all of her references. “But -”

“No ‘buts’.” Hilda waves the now open bag of chips in Lysithea’s face so that she can’t see the screen properly without leaning far to one side. And even then, Hilda follows her head with the bag. “Relax. The article isn’t going anywhere. It’s not due to be published for, like, two more months.”

Lysithea closes the lid of her laptop and puts it aside. “I don’t know how you do it,” she says, reaching for a chip.

“Do what?” Hilda waits until Lysithea has taken a handful before turning the bag back towards her self. 

For a moment Lysithea can’t answer, because she’s chewing. Finally, she says, “You’ve got that -- that thing. You know. The -” Lysithea grasps at the air with one hand. “What’s that word? It’s Italian. Means you look careless but only because you practice looking careless.”

_ “Sprezzatura,” _ Hilda answers without hesitation. 

Lysithea snaps her fingers. “That’s it! Jesus, you’re good at that. No wonder you’re so good at crosswords.” 

Hilda pretends to primp and coquettishly twirl a strand of hair around her finger. “Thanks. I know.”

Lysithea snatches the bag of chips from Hilda’s hands. “Shut up. I wasn’t finished, so don’t look so smug.”

Hilda lets the bag go without any complaint, and says, "Go on, then. What other compliments do you want to render unto me?"

Lysithea sticks out her tongue at her. She knows it's childish, and under any other circumstances she would never have done so. But this is Hilda, and they're all alone. There's nobody else to judge. When it's just the two of them, Lysithea doesn't care if she looks childish -- Hilda would never think she was a child, regardless of her appearance.

"No more compliments,” Lysithea says. “And I could do with less of your strategic incompetence. It's incredibly annoying."

"You should try it sometime," says Hilda, reaching towards Lysithea’s lap to take a chip from the bag. She speaks while she chews, so that her words are punctuated with the crunch of crispy potato wafer. "It makes life so much easier when you don't have to worry about other people's expectations. Trust me."

Lysithea balks at the very thought. "No way! I couldn't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because!" she tries to think of a reason, but fails. "I just - I couldn't.”

Hilda goes for another chip. “I know you can do better than that.”

“I'm always worried about what people think when they look at me, because I've always been in the spotlight. I was taken out of the normal school system at the age of twelve and put into special programs. And even before that, it was a constant stream of performances. Whether it's with a musical instrument, or my education, or all the doctors -"

Lysithea’s eyes widen. She bites her tongue, when she realises exactly what she has said. Hilda has paused in her chewing, her mouth closed but her jaw almost comically jutting out to one side while she stares at Lysithea. 

“Th-That - What I mean is -” Lysithea stammers. She has to clear her throat, and then fixes Hilda with a hard look that doesn’t match the waver still present in her voice. “You didn’t hear anything.”

Hilda blinks. “Hear what? Anyway, I’m starving. Are you starving? Let’s get something more than this.” She takes back the bag of chips and rolls it closed, sticking a few fingers in her mouth to lick off the residual salt. With her other hand, she pulls out her phone. “How does pizza sound? There’s a place around the corner that doesn’t completely suck and can deliver in fifteen minutes.”

Already hunched back over her laptop, Lysithea answers with relief, “Pizza is fine. Nothing too spicy, please.” 

“Extra jalapeños. Got it.”

Lysithea can’t help but let out a small huff of laughter. 

It’s going to be a long night. 

* * *

Lysithea awakes to a sea of soft warmth. She blinks, bleary, and squints. Light streams through a window, washing the sheets a bright white. A tangle of pink hair peeks from beneath the sheets beside her, nestled into the neighboring pillow, and Lysithea freezes. 

Hilda. She is in Hilda’s bed. She had spent the night at Hilda’s.

She doesn’t need to look down at herself to know that she is still mostly clothed. Her shoes and sweater have been abandoned somewhere on the floor. She could vaguely remember getting rid of them sometime after they ordered a pizza but before they abandoned their work to watch a show on netflix. Not that they had paid the show much attention. Hilda had spoken through the whole thing, as if every scene were in desperate need of her constant narration.

After that, Lysithea only remembers the warm hum of the laptop between them, and the softness of the bedsheets, and Hilda’s voice lowering to a murmuring lull. She must have fallen asleep, and Hilda hadn’t been so cruel as to wake her and kick her out of the apartment at midnight. 

Empty bottles of soda and cider are scattered like a city skyline on the bedside table. Her laptop was long gone -- probably under the bed at this point. God only knows. The corner of Hilda's phone can be seen beneath her pillow, glinting in the light when Lysithea sits up in bed.

She needs to somehow make her way to the bathroom, but she is up against the wall, the floor at the foot of the bed is a wreckage of clothes, and Hilda is asleep blocking the only path to freedom. She decides to brave the mountain at the foot of the bed instead of crawling over an insensate Hilda. When she slips out from beneath the sheets and starts to edge further down the mattress however, Hilda rolls over, and Lysithea only narrowly escapes being clocked by a knee. 

Swearing under her breath, Lysithea manages to escape, and climbs down the slope of Hilda's clothes. She finds her bag at the foot of the bed, beside her laptop, and breathes a sigh of relief that it hadn't been consumed by the living organism that was Hilda's apartment. Grabbing the bag, Lysithea heads to the bathroom, and shuts the door behind her as quietly as she can. The lock is a one of those sliding bars that covers the gap between the door and the frame, and Lysithea slips it into place. 

The bathroom is, much to her surprise, clean. Apart from the copious amount of bottles and brushes and makeup and hair product and other cosmetic items that Lysithea did not know the names for, it's still clean. Towels hang from a heated rack along the wall, and the combined shower-tub gleams white. 

Unfortunately however there's very little space on the countertops. Lysithea silently debates what to do with her bag until she finally gives up and props it on the edge of the bathtub. She has to bend over to loot through it. She pulls out another smaller bag from within, a black hard-lined case with a red and white caduceus staff logo on the front. It’s only her emergency stash, the one she keeps just in case her day doesn’t go quite as planned. Like yesterday. And today. 

She unzips the case at the sink, but has to stop. Of all the products and bottles Hilda has accumulated, there's not a single empty glass, and she had not thought to bring some of the leftover soda from the bedroom. With a grimace, Lysithea flips the lid of the case up, and goes about part one of her morning routine.

The cavalcade of pills needs to be taken once every twenty-four hours. Most of the pill bottles sport warning labels about adverse effects when mixed with alcohol. She uncaps the first, and shakes a single pill into the centre of her palm. At most she can manage to swallow down two at a time, but it still seems to take an age. Especially since she has to keep moving the bag aside in order to run the tap and sip water from her cupped hands. 

By the end, the front of her shirt has water marks all down it, and she is wiping off her chin and hands upon one of the fluffy towels. The bottles of pills are all lined up on the small bit of ledge she had cleared upon the sink, and the larger case they usually were neatly divided into rests upon the floor. Lysithea puts the last cap back onto its corresponding bottle, twisting until she hears the child-lock mechanism catch. 

She catches sight of her reflection in the mirror. Her pale hair is a mess. She considers the odds that Hilda would mind her using one of the many brushes, before deciding to run her fingers through her hair instead. 

“It’s not weird,” Lysithea tells her reflection in the mirror as she tries to tame a particularly stubborn cowlick to no avail. “She’s a friend. Having friends and staying at their house is not weird. You used to sleep in El’s bed all the time.”

That much, at least, is true. And that was even at Edelgard’s enormous family mansion, where there were more rooms with beds than a hospital, let alone in Hilda’s one bedroom apartment where the couch was off limits due to an overabundance of electronics and _ tchotchkes. _

Her thoughts are interrupted by a knocking on the bathroom door. 

“Lysithea,” Hilda’s voice is a tired mumble through the door. “C’mon. I need to use the bathroom.”

Frantic, Lysithea swipes all of her pill bottles from the sink ledge and back into her main bag. She doesn’t bother to sort them carefully into their own little miniature case like she normally would, cramming everything into her bag and tugging at the zippers. 

Hilda's knocking intensifies. 

"I'm coming!" Lysithea calls. There's a pause, and then she adds, "If you say _ 'that's what she says' _ I will spray you with the shower head."

"You're no fun before you've had coffee in the morning."

Lysithea yanks open the door. Hilda is rubbing at one of her eyes. Somewhere during the night before they had fallen asleep, she had the sense of mind to wash her face and remove all her makeup. Without her usual dark eyeliner and eyeshadow, Hilda looks -- not plain, exactly. Vulnerable. As though she used cosmetics as armour. 

As she slips past her, Hilda says, "Coffee’s in the freezer. There's cereal for breakfast, if you want. Or leftover pizza. Just be sure to leave a slice for me."

"Yeah. Alright." 

The bathroom door shuts, and the lock clicks into place. Lysithea stands there for a moment, unsure of what to do. She really should eat something. The medication was supposed to be taken with food. She can stay for breakfast. It’s fine. It’s sensible.

Sleeping over at a colleague’s house, and sharing a bed, and quibbling over who gets the bathroom, and eating leftovers for breakfast together is not weird. 

It’s not weird. It’s _ worse. _

It’s becoming part of the Routine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pinecones on the sweater clip is a very oblique reference to Lysithea’s major Crest of Gloucester and the Thyrsus. In Graeco-Roman mythology, the Thyrsus is a staff with a pinecone at the end. 
> 
> also: tfw ur not-gf is too tiny to steal her designer clothes (TToTT)


	3. Chapter 3

Lysithea forgets to bring her mug back. She had even seen it at Hilda’s that morning, hidden behind a stack of cups and sauce pans, when she had gone hunting for where Hilda kept her plates. The urge to tidy everything in the cupboards into an orderly fashion had been so strong, that Lysithea had instead channeled her energy into trying to figure out the logic behind where Hilda kept everything in her kitchen. And by that point, she had completely forgotten about grabbing her mug and bringing it home with her. 

So it is that at two in the afternoon, Lysithea arrives back at her own apartment, because Hilda had engaged her in lively conversation about new reference material she could use in her thesis, which made Lysithea miss two trains. By the time she fishes the keys from her bag, it has begun to rain. The sky above is a cloudbank of iron grey. Lysithea rushes to stick the key into the lock and get the door open. 

The apartment inside is partially obscured by shadow. It's messy, but it's a far cry from Hilda's apartment. And Lysithea is comforted by the fact that none of this is her own mess. Indeed, it would have looked a great deal messier had it also included the usual football gear heaped into the entryway corner, but Raphael is out at practice on Sundays until five.

At the sound of Lysithea shutting the door behind her, Marianne drifts into the living room from the kitchen. She is holding a cup of something warm, and wearing her faded blue scrubs. "Oh, Lysithea. I was wondering what had happened to you."

"Sorry," Lysithea toes off her shoes and lines them up neatly on the rack by the door. Numerous other pairs are propped against the wire shoe rack as well, belonging to the various flatmates she shares the apartment with. "I spent the night at a friend's house."

Marianne leans against the kitchen doorway, looking as though she is on the verge of falling asleep where she stands. It’s her perennial state of being, as far as Lysithea can tell. A product of her ungodly work hours as a resident at the local hospital. “Is Edelgard in town?” 

“No,” Lysithea slips her bag off her shoulder as an excuse to not meet Marianne’s questioning gaze. “It’s - It’s a different friend. Her name is Hilda.” 

“Oh,” Marianne says. “Okay.”

“It isn’t like that. She’s a colleague at the university. We’re not - We’re not dating or anything.”

Marianne blinks, slow and languid. “I never said that. I’m just glad you’re alright. You usually tell one of us when you’re not going to come home. That’s all.”

Lysithea’s stomach sinks. “Sorry.”

“That’s alright.”

“I’ll be sure to text you next time.” 

The words pop out before Lysithea can even comprehend that she has thought them. She had not intended for there to be a next time at all, but clearly that is not the case. 

Marianne doesn’t seem to notice Lysithea’s moment of aporetic self-reflection. “Okay. Do you want some cocoa? I made a bit extra here, thinking Ignatz was still around but he’s gone to the studio for the afternoon.” 

“Thanks. Cocoa sounds great.”

* * *

Hilda sends her the notes on the latest thesis draft the next week, and Lysithea returns the favour with her own laborious notes on Hilda’s article. Whereas her notes are typed and colour-coded, Hilda's are scrawled across margins with whole sections circled and arrows pointed to other pages.

It's early morning before Hilda's first class. The two of them are crowded over the newspaper. They sit so closely that their knees are pressed together, and Lysithea can feel the jitter of Hilda’s foot against her ankle. It had stopped bothering her ages ago. She doesn’t even notice it now. 

Lysithea points to a section of her thesis that Hilda has scrawled across, trying to decipher the notes there. "What's this one here say?" 

"AMATEUR," Hilda says.

Lysithea jerks her head up. "What?"

"Fifteen down. It's 'AMATEUR'." Hilda pens in the answer to the crossword.

Relief sweeps through Lysithea, and her shoulders relax. "Oh, that."

When Hilda has finished writing in the word, she sets the pen down and leans closer to look over Lysithea's shoulder. She reads her own notes, then points to the arrow in question. "This means you should move this whole section to the beginning of the chapter. You have a bad habit of waiting to tell the reader the point. Probably because you like the drama of the big reveal."

"I do not!"

"Listen. I'm into it. Like, a lot."

Lysithea can feel her cheeks warm, and then Hilda continues.

"But -" Hilda taps the circled section with her finger. "You gotta tell the audience this stuff way earlier. It's the right wording. You've just put it in the wrong place. Rearrange some stuff where I've indicated, and it'll flow way better. Trust me."

Lysithea deflates. "Thanks."

Hilda taps the underside of Lysithea's chin. "Hey, now. Chin up! You just know so much about this topic you forget that the audience isn't clued in yet. You're going to smash this last draft out of the park."

"Mmm," Lysithea says, unconvinced.

"Thesis notes away," Hilda scolds, prising the pages from Lysithea's grasp and setting them aside. 

"But -!"

"Do the crossword with me." Hilda replaces the pages with the pen she had been wielding earlier, pressing Lysithea's fingers around it. "It will make you feel better. And if you don't do it, I know you'll have a bad day. So, c'mon."

With a huff of irritation at the fact that Hilda is right -- for nothing is so aggravating as Hilda being smug in her knowledge of anything -- Lysithea takes the pen and sets herself to task on the crossword. 

"FASCINATOR," she writes in the word for ten across.

"Nice one! That's what I'm talking about!" Hilda bumps their shoulders together. 

They are still wearing their coats. Outside, autumn has well and truly settled in, and the air is crisp as a good apple. Hilda has begun to dress in stylish black peacoats with gold buttons and pink scarves, while Lysithea stashes extra hand warming packets into her bag in anticipation for the coming winter. 

As they steadily work their way through the crossword, Hilda's phone alarm begins to beep at her. Groaning in dismay, Hilda turns it off. 

“This sucks,” Hilda leans her elbows on the table and props her chin in her hands. “I have to stay after hours today, too. They have a big assignment due at the end of the week, and I told them I’d be in my office this afternoon to answer any last minute questions. Who actually takes up professors like me on office hours?” 

There’s a pause while they both think about the answer to that question, and then in unison they say, _ “Flayn.” _

“She is my best student, though,” Lysithea adds.

Hilda is running her hands down her face. “I know. I know. And I like the little runt, but she asks way too many questions, and I just want to go home.”

“How many grandmothers have you killed this term?” Lysithea asks idly. She taps her ballpoint against the newspaper margin and chews on her lower lip until the answer for fifteen across comes to her. 

“So _ so _many. I am the bane of octogenarians everywhere. I haunt rest homes.” Hilda angles herself so that she’s facing Lysithea instead of the desk. “Wanna bet I’ve killed more than you?” 

At that, Lysithea glances up from the crossword. “What are the stakes?”

A triumphant grin has already spread across Hilda’s face. “Loser takes the winner out to dinner next Friday.” 

“Deal. How many of your students have claimed a grandparent died this term?” 

“Four,” Hilda announces, as though she’s won.

Lysithea smiles. _ “Five.” _

Hilda’s face falls. “What? Bullshit. _ What?” _

In answer, Lysithea only shrugs. 

“Okay, backup, backup. What kind of hardass assignments have you been giving out that killed _ five _ grandmothers?” Hilda cuts herself off with a gasp of realisation. “Oh, you’re one of _ those _professors.”

“Because I’m nice,” Lysithea says pointedly, returning to the crossword, “I’ll let you take me to my favourite gelato place instead of a full dinner. We can get takeaway at your place after.” 

“Pfft. _ ‘Nice’. _ Thank god I’m not one of your students, and you actually like me.” 

Lysithea doesn’t debate that. She simply gestures to Hilda’s phone. “You’re going to be even later than usual.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going.” Hilda stands up, then points to fourteen across. “ASPIRANTS.”

* * *

Lysithea finishes the crossword that morning, and she’s only mildly irritated that Hilda was right. Her day goes far better having ticked off one of the steps in her routine. Plus, she gets free gelato, dinner, and another evening spent at Hilda’s apartment, which is starting to become a regular occurrence. 

This time she makes sure to text Marianne. She receives a thumbs-up emoji in response, and nothing else. Marianne has probably only managed to send that in between patients. 

It's not weird, Lysithea tells herself the next Friday when she's unwinding her scarf in Hilda's messy living room. It's an opportunity to work on her thesis some more. She even brings her laptop with every intention to do just that. And she does manage to get some extra work done despite Hilda's best efforts to derail her progress, which means that it is definitely alright for her to put her laptop away at seven in the evening and finish off the serving of takeaway she had left in the fridge. 

"Lysithea," Hilda calls, her voice drifting from the bedroom. "Hurry up! I wanna put on the next season!" 

"Just a minute!" 

Lysithea is searching for a fork to no avail. Her carton of takeaway sits on the counter. She begins to systematically open up every drawer in Hilda's kitchen in her efforts. She hadn’t seen Hilda pull out their forks earlier that evening, and has no idea where they might be kept. No matter how much Lysithea understands that Hilda has a System, she cannot shake the feeling that things seem to be stored completely at random. She nearly has a crisis of faith when she opens up a cupboard to find a three piece bamboo steamer stowed alongside the cutting boards. 

Finally -- after opening and closing nearly every drawer in the kitchen -- she finds what she's looking for.

"Hilda, who puts cutlery in the second to last drawer by the refrigerator?"

"Legends and kings."

Exasperated, Lysithea heads back to the bedroom. She nearly trips on the step down from the kitchen to the living room. The long hems of the black-branded sweatpants she is wearing are still too long even after rolling up the waistband. Hilda had lent her a set of clothes to sleep in, and Lysithea couldn't even pretend that she did not want to use them since she had forgone bringing her own set of pajamas to Hilda's apartment.

Bringing her own pajamas would be admitting that this was far more than what she was willing to label it. Not that she thought Hilda would have minded. Indeed, Hilda had made a show of handing Lysithea a brand new toothbrush still in its packaging, when they had entered the apartment earlier that evening. 

Using one hand to tug at the waistband of the sweatpants, Lysithea plods into Hilda's bedroom and sits on the bed. Hilda already has another episode ready on the laptop screen. 

"No spilling on the bed, please." Hilda says without looking up from where she's fiddling with her tablet. 

"Your sheets are safe from me."

"Shame," Hilda sighs.

Shooting her an unimpressed glare, Lysithea hits the spacebar to play the episode. She defiantly ignores Hilda's smirk, and focuses instead on finishing her dinner and enjoying the show.

The evening occurs much like the last time she had spent the night, except this time when they fall asleep Hilda steals most of the blankets, and Lysithea is forced to wrestle them back. Hilda whines and mumbles something, but is clearly still fast asleep even as her back presses up against Lysithea's side. 

Lysithea doesn't push Hilda away. She is, after all, cold.

She wakes to rain lashing the window overshadowing the side of Hilda's bed that Lysithea has begun to frequent. The sky is dark enough that she cannot determine what time it is. Lysithea clambers from the end of the bed so as not to disturb a slumbering Hilda, and grabs her bag from where it sits in a corner. 

When she enters the bathroom and locks the door, she notices two things. One: Hilda owns a washing and drying machine, which she had not noticed on her first visit because they had been hidden under a mountain of laundry. Two: Hilda's bathroom is probably the tidiest room in the apartment, in terms of actual clear floor space.

Lysithea performs the same morning routine as ever. She takes out her hard-lined med case. She lines up all her pill bottles on the ledge of the sink. She twists off the first cap. She shakes a small round white pill into the centre of her palm. This time however, when she reaches for the sink tap, prepared to cup the water in one hand, she pauses. 

Blinking, she has to rub at one of her eyes, thinking that she is seeing things. And yet there, clear as day, nestled alongside Hilda's various makeup and hair products on the sink sits her travel mug. Gingerly, Lysithea reaches out and picks it up. The mug has been cleaned. Its pastel purples and whites and cartoon kittens stand out among a sea of vibrantly coloured bottles and jars. 

She sticks it under the tap and uses it to take her meds. She leaves it where she had found it. She does not put it into her bag to take it away. 

There is the muted shuffle of bare footsteps through the door. Lysithea emerges from the bathroom, clutching her bag, to discover that the bed is empty and Hilda is nowhere in sight. Something clatters in the kitchen. Lysithea sets her bag down in the same corner as before, and wanders into the hallway.

Hilda is making breakfast, and Lysithea watches in bewildered fascination as the event unfolds. Just by walking from one side of the kitchen to the other, Hilda is somehow miraculously able to do everything needed to cook breakfast without ever needing to retrace her steps. What Lysithea had initially assumed was completely random turns out to have alien logic when Hilda does it. Indeed, the placement of everything is because that’s what is the most efficient layout for her to save time when doing set tasks, so that she can perform actions with as little effort as possible.

Hilda notices her presence, and yawns around one hand while maneuvering a frying pan with the other. “Morning. Sleep well?” 

“Yeah,” Lysithea says. 

She continues to watch Hilda move about the kitchen, arrested by how easily she seems to be able to move from one action to another until, finally, Hilda is seated atop one of the counters with a plate of scrambled eggs on toast in her lap, drumming her heels lightly against one of the cupboards that has been strategically draped with a soft towel to cushion the blows. Another plate of food has already been set aside for her, without Lysithea needing to ask for it. 

Hilda is -- much to her absolute horror -- beginning to make sense.

* * *

Despite the increased time spent in one another’s company, it remains a mystery how Hilda can do so much in her day. Slowly, Lysithea incorporates all of Hanneman's and Hilda's latest notes on her thesis. And at the same time she does her best to uncover the secret behind Hilda's System. 

She has never met a person so dedicated to being lazy, that it means she is that much more efficient with every task. Nobody else Lysithea knows can automate their routine troubles the way Hilda can. Lysithea has known marketers and sales people of the highest calibre -- thanks to El's vast family network -- and none of them compare to Hilda, whose powers extend to the realm of uncanny. She can convince anyone of doing things for her so that she doesn't have to do them herself. Most bizarrely, they always seem to be pleased that they are doing it.

Case and point: she often sees Hilda's TA, a beleaguered young man who doesn't seem to actually have a name and whose face is as forgettable as his personality, running amok doing Hilda's grocery shopping and dry cleaning, on top of grading the papers turned in by her undergrad students. 

Which isn’t to say that he doesn’t seem absolutely thrilled at the prospect of pleasing his professorial overlord, because he does. And which also isn’t to say that Hilda never does work, because she must. 

Not that Lysithea has ever actually _ seen _Hilda doing work -- thesis notes and lectures notwithstanding. The woman avoids work like it’s out of fashion. 

It’s a further mystery how Hilda manages to have time to go to the gym when Lysithea _ knows _her schedule must be crazy. But sure enough, she sees Hilda walk by her office one day in her gym clothes looking sweaty and wearing nothing but black tights and a pink sports bra with a small black towel draped around her neck like a stole. Her long pink-dyed hair is pulled back; it's damp at the temples.

She pauses in the doorway to Lysithea’s office, tilting her head back to drink from a water bottle, then says, “You doing anything tomorrow?” 

Lysithea takes a moment to answer. Her finger is pressed down on the ‘J’ key of her laptop, sending a spiral of letters down the email she had been penning to Hanneman. Jerking her hands from the keyboard, she clears her throat. “Actually, I’m - uh - going out with my flatmates tomorrow for my birthday.” 

“Oh, nice! Happy birthday!” Hilda glances around the floor for a moment, then gestures to the office with her water bottle. “No live pony as a gift from your mystery millionaire?”

In answer, Lysithea pushes her chair slightly out of the way to reveal the enormous box that had been shipped in earlier that afternoon, and which she had stashed under her desk to keep out of the way. 

“Of course.” Hilda snorts with laughter, but it sounds genuinely amused. Had it been anyone else, Lysithea might have worried she was resentful, but not Hilda. “Want to come over tonight, then? We can bake you an early birthday cake, and then I can leave you alone tomorrow to hang out with your other friends."

Cake is a more than adequate method of bribery for Lysithea on any occasion, and these days she doesn't require much convincing to go to Hilda's apartment.

“You can come along if you -?” Lysithea begins to offer, but Hilda shakes her head. 

“Nah. I’m a terrible third wheel. And you should chill with them.” 

Lysithea thinks about her workload for the week. “I can do tonight.”

Hilda’s smile blinds like the midmorning sun. “Great! Just swing by anytime after four.”

She turns and walks into her own office before Lysithea can even respond. Lysithea watches, half twisted around atop her chair, as Hilda hums to herself while she rifles around her office. Hilda finds whatever she had been looking for, then turns off the lights and locks the door, and as she starts off back down the hallway, she waves in Lysithea’s direction with a parting wink.

Lysithea cranes her neck to watch Hilda swan away. It takes her a whole minute to remember that she had been writing an email.

* * *

Lysithea is digging into a sack of flour when her phone rings in her bag. “Can you get that for me?”

Behind her she can hear the zipper of her bag being opened. Hilda doesn’t mention the medicine case, and puts the bag down once she’s found the phone. 

“Sure thing. It’s -” Hilda turns over Lysithea’s phone to check the name. “- ‘Mom’.” 

“Oh, it’s not actually my mother. That’s Edelgard. It’s a joke,” Lysithea explains. “Just text her that -”

But Hilda has already pressed the green answer button, and is lifting the phone to her ear. “Hi, Mom!! Lysithea can’t come to the phone right now. How can I help?”

Lysithea hisses Hilda’s name, and puts down the sack of flour and measuring cup she had been holding. She tries to jump up and take the phone, but can’t reach it when Hilda straightens to her full height.

There is silence on the other line, and then Edelgard’s distinct, cultured voice. “You must be Hilda. I’ve heard so much about you.”

A wide grin splits Hilda’s face. “Oh, you have, have you? Tell me more.”

“No, no, no, no, _ no.” _Lysithea holds up her flour-smeared hands in a threatening manner. “I will put handprints on everything in your closet.”

Hilda makes a face at her. “Booo!”

“We’re making a cake,” Lysithea raises her voice so that Edelgard can hear through the mic. “Actually, _ I’m _ making a cake. _ Someone _ -” she aims a pointed glare at Hilda, “- isn’t helping very much.”

“It’s called ‘supervising,’” Hilda interrupts in her defense. “And let it be known that I got everything down from the high shelves for you.”

"Just -! Put her on speaker phone please."

“Fine, fine.” Hilda hits a button on the phone, and puts it down on the counter between them.

Edelgard’s voice issues from the speakers. “Is this a bad time?”

“No.” Lysithea continues to sift in flour to a large steel-brushed bowl, raising her voice a little for the phone’s mic to pick up. "My hands have stuff all over them because someone doesn't own a mixer."

"I own a perfectly good mixer! It's right here!" Hilda opens up a ground level cupboard with her foot and gestures to, admittedly, a very nice mixer.

"For which I can't find the paddle attachment," Lysithea counters.

"That's what -"

"Do not say: _ 'That's what she said.' _ Do not!"

“- the spatula is for,” Hilda finishes, trying and failing to look innocent. “You see? I didn’t say anything of the sort. Now what must your friend think of me?”

“Nothing that wasn’t true, I imagine,” is Edelgard’s dry response. 

Lysithea wipes off her hands and snatches up her phone. “Hilda, can you -?” she gestures to the beginnings of the cake batter.

Hilda waves her off. “I’m on it. Shoo.”

Hitting the button to turn off speaker, Lysithea moves out of the kitchen. The only place that has a door between her and the kitchen is either outside or Hilda’s bedroom, so Lysithea wanders into Hilda’s bedroom and closes the door behind her. It feels odd being in this space without Hilda there, like she’s wandered into the forbidden temple of an ancient fashion deity. 

“Sorry about that,” Lysithea says once the door is shut behind her.

“Well, I’m relieved to hear you two actually get along.”

“Yeah. We do. She’s - ” Sitting on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinks beneath Lysithea’s weight. “- nice.”

“I didn’t think you’d like her if she wasn’t. You’re awfully sensible about things like that.” In the background, Lysithea can hear Hubert’s low voice murmur something unintelligible. Edelgard pulls the phone away from her ear momentarily, before relaying the message. “Hubert says he can’t say much for your taste, but that Dr. Goneril does not pose a significant threat on your life unless you happen to be a clay pigeon. Hubert, I don’t know what that means.”

Lysithea screws up her face in bewilderment, but all she says is, “Tell Hubert to keep his nose out of my business.”

“A futile effort, Lys. You know that.” Edelgard switches topics, and there’s the sound of footsteps, as though she too is leaving for another room. “I have meetings all day tomorrow, so I figured I would ring to wish you an early happy birthday, rather than a belated one. Did you get my package?”

“Thank you. And yes. It’s too much, as usual.” 

There’s a huff of amusement down the line. “Nonsense.” 

“You really do spoil me, you know. You don’t have to -”

“Lysithea,” Edelgard interrupts, her tone firm. “We’ve already had this discussion.”

Lysithea bites her tongue, but she can’t stop the guilty squirm in her gut at being unable to properly reciprocate Edelgard’s lavish generosity. For years, Edelgard had insisted her kindness and friendship was enough in return, but it had never sat well with her. 

“Yeah, I know,” Lysithea relents. 

“Don’t go eating everything in the box all at once.”

“That,” Lysithea says primly, “would be physically impossible.”

“No, not you. That message was for Raphael.”

At that, Lysithea laughs softly. “I’ll be sure to tell him to keep his paws off my birthday haul. He and the rest of the flat are taking me out to dinner tomorrow.”

“The usual place?” 

“Mmm,” Lysithea’s answer is a wordless hum of affirmation. Then she frowns. “Hang on. What time is it over there?”

“Not _ that _late,” Edelgard says, but she sounds cagey, like an animal that has been cornered. 

“When you have meetings all day tomorrow, too,” Lysithea scolds. 

“I always have meetings.”

“Go to sleep, El.”

A sigh crackles through the speakers. “Has anyone told you you’re rather bossy?” Edelgard says not unkindly.

“Hilda does. All the time.”

“She really does know you, then.”

_ “Good night, _El,” Lysithea says in a warning tone. 

She can almost see the smile down the line when Edelgard says, “Good night. And again -- happy birthday.”

Lysithea lingers on the bed for a moment after the phone call ends. The bed has an extra mattress stacked beneath it, and she is too short for her feet to touch the ground. For a long moment, she looks down at the phone in her hands, before hopping off the bed and making her way back to the kitchen. 

Hilda is finishing up the cake batter, when Lysithea walks in. "Is she gone already? I didn't get to tell her how much I admire her for trying to dress you in Valentino, and also maybe if she could send a few things in some bigger sizes."

“Good luck with that. She doesn’t trust easy.” Lysithea checks that the oven has been preheated, and then takes over from Hilda.

Hilda gives up control of the cake batter without complaint. "How did you meet mystery millionaire, anyway?"

"We were admitted at the same hospital when we were kids. Turns out having the same rare disease since childhood is a bonding experience."

Hilda hums a contemplative note at the back of her throat, but does not pry. Even so Lysithea can feel Hilda's eyes upon her. She can't bring herself to meet Hilda's gaze.

"It's -" Lysithea scrapes the cake mix into the baking tin, and levels it out with the spatula. "It's manageable. I'm managing it. I just don't like to talk about it much, because then it becomes the only thing people ever talk about. And I like talking to you about other things, so we should just -"

Hilda places a hand over hers, stopping Lysithea's fiddling. She takes the spatula from Lysithea's fingers, and sets it aside on the counter. "Lysithea, I need to ask you something."

Swallowing past a nervous lump in her throat, Lysithea looks anywhere but at Hilda, who has stepped closer, trapping her against the counter. "Wh-What?"

Hilda turns their clasped hands over so that she can run her thumb over the back of Lysithea's knuckles. She seems to take an age to inspect Lysithea's fingers before she says, "Will you let me do your nails while the cake is in the oven?"

Lysithea’s answering laugh is relieved. She puts the cake into the oven, sets a timer on her phone, and then allows herself to be led into Hilda’s room. There, Hilda starts excitedly rummaging through a drawer of her workstation. She sets out a plethora of colour options on the bed, and allows Lysithea to pick one. No sooner has Lysithea pointed at a pale lilac colour, than she is on Hilda’s bed, and one of her hands has been pulled into Hilda’s lap.

Hilda bows over Lysithea’s wrist, directing Lysithea’s fingers this way and that while she first files her nails back. Her own fingernails are perfectly shaped, blunt half-moons of bold red polish. On anyone else, they might have clashed with pink, but Hilda somehow makes it work.

Hilda fills the silence with chatter, pausing at one point to put on some music from her tablet on the bedside table. She crosses her legs atop the bed and shuffles closer so that she can get a better angle on Lysithea’s nails. Her hands are warm yet calloused, as though she had spent years wielding a woodman’s axe. 

“Do you play sports?” Lysithea wonders aloud.

Hilda dips the tiny polish brush back into its bottle -- this is the second coat of colour after a clear coat, which Lysithea had never known was a necessary step until now. “Okay this is going to sound a little weird, but you know skeet shooting? The sport with shotguns where you shoot clay targets that are flung into the air?”

“Yes?” 

Hilda shrugs. “My family’s kinda famous for it. My brother’s an Olympian. He got bronze a few years ago or something, and now he’s, like, a hometown hero or whatever. I used to compete until I was, like, fifteen and then decided that it really wasn’t for me, thanks.”

“That is,” Lysithea thinks back to her phone call with Edelgard, which suddenly makes sense, “probably not the strangest thing I could have learned about you. Though I can’t imagine holding up a shotgun requires you to do much lifting at the gym.” 

“I would make a ‘guns’ joke, but I know you’d yell at me.”

“Has that ever stopped you before?”

“No, but in the past I wasn’t doing your nails, and I have priorities. Besides,” Hilda finishes the final coat and takes a moment to blow on Lysithea’s nails. “If I’m very very good, you might let me show you how to apply makeup, too.”

Lysithea leans over to glance at her phone on the bedside table. “Only if it takes less than fifteen minutes.”

Immediately, Hilda bounds off the bed, and goes racing to the bathroom, from which she emerges clutching a small velvet bag. Her eyes are alight. When she jumps back onto the bed, she says in excitement, “I’ve been dreaming of this moment.”

Lysithea eyes the bag warily. “I’m suddenly nervous for some reason.” 

“I just have that effect on people.” 

Hilda starts pulling out various bottles and brushes, and gets to work. She explains each and every step of what she’s doing with the familiarity of someone who has worn makeup nearly every day since the age of fourteen. She directs Lysithea with soft touches to her jaw and cheek, and it does not take long for Lysithea to become utterly distracted. 

She is saved by the timer going off, and Hilda pronouncing her nails and makeup finished just in time to pull the cake from the oven. While Lysithea starts on the frosting, Hilda puts together a separate makeup case for her, stuffing it into Lysithea’s bag beside her laptop with specific instructions to use it. 

They barely wait for the frosting to be applied before pulling out forks and digging in. They don’t bother with cutting slices. It isn’t the worst cake Lysithea has ever made, but it certainly isn’t the best. And yet, she is hard pressed the remember the last time she had enjoyed a cake as much. 

Eventually, Lysithea leans to one side to get a better look out the window. “It’s getting late.”

Licking the frosting off her fork, Hilda shrugs, as unflappable as ever. “You can stay the night again, if you want.”

For a moment, Lysithea pauses. She cannot tell if Hilda seems almost _ too _nonchalant, or if that is just how Hilda always was. 

“I should head back to my apartment,” Lysithea says slowly.

Hilda smiles around the fork before removing it from her mouth and saying, “Next time, then.”

“Next time.” 

* * *

When Lysithea returns to her own apartment later that evening, Ignatz looks up from where he's reading on the couch. "Oh! Lysithea, you look nice!"

Her hand tightens around the strap of her bag digging into her shoulder. "Thanks."

She stays up later than she normally would. She tells herself it’s because she wants to hang out with her flatmates, and not because she knows that when she goes to bed she’ll have to wash her face. 

* * *

Lysithea has been twenty-five for three weeks, and still the oddest thing about living to be a quarter of a century is that she has miraculously finished a final draft of her doctoral thesis. Twelve years ago, she might have said living to be twenty-five was the miracle, but those days are long behind her. 

It’s Friday, and it’s the first day of snowfall after a week of crisp autumnal weather. Lysithea reads and re-reads her thesis document for any changes she might need to make, even though Hanneman has already responded to her email saying that if he were an examiner he would be more than pleased to pass it. 

For all intents and purposes, it is ready to submit. Subject to Tomas’ approval. 

Her fingers tremble slightly with adrenaline as she types up the email to Tomas. She goes back multiple times to re-word sections of the email, even though the end result is functionally the same. Finally, Lysithea closes her laptop in triumph, and then immediately pulls out her phone, brimming with excitement. Her fingers fly across the screen, dialing the first person she can think of. 

She wants to tell someone. She wants someone to know and share in this feeling. She wants -

“Hey there, short stack! How’d it go with Professor Handyman? He give you the all clear?” Hilda’s voice comes through the receiver, clear and bright as day. 

Lysithea feels her mouth curve into a smile despite herself. “You know he hates it when you call him that.”

“Then he should pay the eighty six dollars to get a legal name change. I’ve given him the paperwork before.” 

Lysithea snorts in amusement. “He thinks my updated draft is great, by the way.”

“And -?” Hilda drawls, waiting for more. 

“And -” Lysithea bites her lower lip. “I’ve given the final version to Tomas for approval. I just need to wait for his sign off, and I’m done.”

Hilda crows down the line, and Lysithea has to hold the phone away from her ear. “Now _ that’s _ what I like to hear right before the weekend! You still at the office?” 

“Just packing up now.” Lysithea pushes at the floor with her feet so that her office chair spins slowly. She stops herself after one rotation. 

“Good.” There’s the distinct sound of a breeze cutting across Hilda’s phone, as though she has just stepped outside. “Meet me downstairs in five minutes. This calls for victory ice cream at that favourite gelato bar of yours downtown.”

“Hilda, it’s negative two degrees outside.” 

“Yeah, and I want an ice cream sundae with warm brownies and an espresso. Get with the program!”

Lysithea shakes her head, but she can’t keep the grin from her face. She hasn’t been able to ever since she had hit the send button on that email. “Alright. Five minutes.” She stands up to pack her laptop away.

“Maybe make it ten.”

Lysithea rolls her eyes, and sits back down. “Just text me when you’re a block away from campus.” 

“You got it.”

The text arrives eleven minutes later, and Lysithea has been sitting with her bag in her lap, ready to depart for four minutes. A quick elevator ride downstairs, and Hilda is striding towards her on the ground floor. As if to spite the light dusting of snow on the pavement, Hilda is wearing black high-heeled shoes with blood red undersides, like she’d walked across a valley of dead men to arrive at her destination.

It shouldn’t send a thrill skittering up Lysithea’s spine, but it does anyway. 

Where Lysithea is wearing woolen gloves that Ignatz had knitted for her birthday, Hilda rubs her hands together and blows on them for warmth when they step outside. 

“Fuck. It’s freezing.”

“Here.” Lysithea reaches into her bag, and pulls out a pocket hand warmer. 

“Oh, thank you, thank you, _ thankyou.” _

“I can’t believe you still want ice cream.” 

“This won’t be a problem once we’re done with the sundaes and back at my place with a hot toddy.” 

“I shouldn’t have to explain to a molecular biologist the reason why drinking alcohol in freezing weather is a bad idea.”

“Unless you’re planning on abandoning me on the bleak wasteland that is high street, I think I’ll take my chances.” Hilda walks in such a way that Lysithea’s shoulder brushes up against her arm. “Thanks for the handwarmer.” 

“Don’t mention it. Really. _ Don’t.” _

Vaguely, Lysithea wonders if she is turning into one of those patsies that Hilda unloads all of her work onto, but in that moment Hilda is smiling softly down at her, and she can’t bring herself to care. She has only a mind for the promise of a warm brownie and Hilda’s company. Together they walk down the street to the nearby train station while fresh snow gathers at their footsteps. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear the Olympic skeet shooting thing didn’t just come out of nowhere. Hilda’s relic is called “Freikugel” which is from a medieval German legend about a Freischütz. A Freischütz makes a contract with the devil, and in return receives seven magic bullets (called “Freikugeln”). Six of these bullets will hit their target without fail, whereas the seventh bullet belongs to the devil, and which he can use at his discretion.
> 
> Now, I went back and forth about making Hilda’s family a military one because of Holst, but then after doing a bit of digging I decided to run with the Freischütz legend and make it a joke about Hilda’s guns instead. 
> 
> Also I can’t be bothered to try to work out what season Lysithea’s birthday actually falls in, so it’s late autumn now. Because reasons.


	4. Chapter 4

Lysithea allows herself to be distracted by Hilda for the entire weekend. She does not open her laptop to check her emails, or even sneak onto her phone to peek at the university webportal login. On the same front, Hilda does no visible work despite the fact that she has a class to teach on Monday. Whereas Lysithea only allows herself this rare luxury because she does not have her lecture until Tuesday. 

She will regret it come Monday evening, but during the weekend she cannot bring herself to care enough to actually disrupt the two days by worrying about university work. She messages one of her flatmates that she will be out all weekend, and spends the time alternatively lazing about Hilda’s apartment, or being dragged around town by Hilda to spontaneous events. 

In the past, Lysithea had never been much interested in going to animated little bars with live music and decorative antlers. Hanging out in trendy establishments specifically designed for the consumption of alcohol, when she preferred to not mix meds with spirits, is not high on her to-do list, but something about the company more than makes up for it. Hilda herself opts to not drink much either, despite being on a first name basis with everyone on the premises, including Claude, the owner -- a rakishly good-looking man with dark hair, and eyes even more cunning than his smile -- who clears out other lesser customers from the best seats in the house for them, and personally ensures that their glasses are never empty. 

So it is that on a frosty Monday morning Lysithea returns to work more refreshed than she could remember feeling in years. This time she and Hilda take the train from the apartment together. It is far too easy to go about her usual daily routine with Hilda in it; Lysithea does not even pause to think that it might be odd. It isn't until they are ordering their coffees at the cafe just around the corner from the university, that it strikes her that this is a departure from the norm. 

Lysithea murmurs her thanks to the barista as she accepts her mocha, a slight furrow in her brow. She is so preoccupied with the notion that she does not even scold Hilda for stealing one of the marshmallows resting atop the lid of her takeaway cup. 

The feeling lingers when they are waiting for the elevators with their coffees in hand, as though the return to what used to be the normal routine was more jarring than what had occurred just previous. Lysithea tries to shrug it away. Hilda doesn't seem to notice. Or if she does, she does not mention it. 

They do the crossword in Lysithea's office. Hilda leaves for her class -- late, as usual -- and Lysithea opens up her work emails for the first time in two days.

A few of the usual suspects litter in inbox. Three spam emails that had slipped through the cracks of the university's firewall. A flurry of students worried about their upcoming assignment at the very last minute; the paper is due at the beginning of next week, and by the looks of it some of them have only just started now. No surprise there. 

Midway through clearing the list of emails, Lysithea goes stock-still. Tomas has replied to the final thesis draft she had sent him on Friday. His response takes up only one ominous line on the screen:

_ ‘We need to meet to discuss further. Come by my office Monday 2pm, if it suits. -T.’ _

Her heart races in her chest. A million possibilities pop up into her head about what could have possibly gone wrong this time. Or perhaps it has gone right for once, and she is simply over-reacting. 

The latter seems unlikely. And besides, Lysithea had never been predisposed towards optimism. Life had taught her that, and if nothing else she is an expert study. 

She responds to the email with an affirmation, and then spends the next few hours agonising over it. She wishes Hilda were here. She wishes Edelgard were here. But Hilda is in the second floor lecture hall, and Edelgard is four hours time difference away and probably busy with very important meetings. 

Briefly, Lysithea considers going to Hanneman to pick his brain, but by the time she has thought to do so it is half an hour before she must meet with Tomas. She was supposed to have spent the day writing up her lecture for tomorrow, but instead she stews in a soup of anxious anticipation, unable to bring herself to do anything more than stall and not dissolve into full-blown panic.

She arrives at Tomas' office fifteen minutes early, unable to stand the idea of waiting a moment longer. In one hand she clutches her notebook and pen, and in the other her bag. Thankfully, he is inside. The door is ajar, and the lights are on. Lysithea has to steady herself with a deep breath before she raps lightly on the door, and pushes it open.

"You wanted to see me, Tomas?"

For a portly old man who dresses all in unassuming beige, his presence never fails to fill her with dread. He glances up from his computer. "Ah, Lysithea. Good. Come in."

This is how it always starts. With smiles. With a veneer of kindness and understanding. 

Lysithea perches herself gingerly on the edge of a seat which is located at the end of his desk. She puts down her bag at her feet. He already has a copy of her latest thesis draft printed out. She feels ill at the sight of his handwriting scrawled all across the margins. 

"About this draft -" she starts, but he cuts her off before she can get more than a few words in edgewise.

"Yes. I'm glad you sent it to me." Tomas pulls his chair a little closer so that he can angle his notes towards her and they can both read them. "I have a few concerns."

"O-Oh?" She clears her throat, and tries to hide the tremble of her fingers when she opens her notebook to a fresh page. She has already labelled the top of the page with the date, time, and meeting title.

Tomas flips to midway through her thesis, where a portion of her data is spilled across the page. The rest of the extensive tables and figures are located in the appendices. Meticulously, he puts on a pair of round spectacles, and pulls out a pen of his own. 

"This main section here," he taps with the end of his pen at the corner of the data table. "It still isn't clear enough. You don't prove the correlation between your data and your results." 

Even though Lysithea is poised and ready to take notes, she cannot bring herself to write anything down. Her notebook is filled with pages and pages of figures and sketches and explanations and minutes of their meetings on this exact topic. 

"I don't understand," Lysithea says slowly. "How else can I explain it?" 

"In a way that makes sense, preferably." His answer is dry and biting. 

She has to mask a wince at his tone. She takes a moment to respond, and when she does so, it’s like hearing her own voice from a distance. 

"With all due respect, I think that what you're asking me is outside the scope of this project."

He goes still. He leans back in his seat, and studies her. His eyes look very small through the lenses of his glasses. "I beg your pardon?"

"I just -" Lysithea swallows thickly, and forces herself to sit up a little straighter. "I just don't think that what you're asking of me is what this thesis is meant to deliver."

"Incorrect. This -" he taps at the pages, "- is not a thesis."

A chill settles over her. "What?"

"This is not a thesis. If you submitted it to anyone, they would fail it."

"I don't understand," she repeats. It's a sentence she has said many times in this office, and which she imagines she will say many more times yet. "I received independent advice from other academics in the field, and they said that -"

"Which academics?" Tomas' face has gone hard. 

"Ha-Hanneman, of course -"

"A secondary supervisor is not an independent source."

"And Dr. Goneril," Lysithea adds. 

It feels like a trump card, using Hilda’s name. The rising star of the department. The young up and coming darling of the field with a bright future and an academic matrix to die for.

This time when Tomas smiles, it looks forced, like a baring of teeth. “And what did Dr. Goneril have to say?”

“She gave me constructive feedback, which I took. And then she said it was ready to submit,” Lysithea answers truthfully.

The last bit in particular had made Lysithea’s chest swell with a sense of accomplishment at the time, as though her thesis had already passed the examination stage by the grace of Hilda’s approval alone. 

Tomas takes a moment to clean his glasses with the edge of his beige sweater. “Well,” he perches the spectacles back upon his nose, “Dr. Goneril is very young. And unless I am very much mistaken, she has never been an examiner before.”

“Then, can you please tell me what you would have me do to fix whatever problem you think there is with my thesis?”

“Get more data.”

A prickle of fear down her spine. “That would take months. It’s not feasible within the timeframe to -”

“And yet it must be done. What you have here is -” He shuffles a few of the pages, and then waves at them like they’re garbage that has sullied his desk. “- nothing. It doesn’t prove anything. You’re miles away from finishing. You need more data, and you need clearer explanations as to how you arrived at your conclusions.”

“I -” Her mouth feels dry. Her stomach squirms like a bed of snakes, and with a sense of unreality she says, “No. I won’t.”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I won’t change it anymore.” Lysithea shakes her head. Her voice is faint, but immovable. “I don’t have time to rewrite my thesis to be what you want. It’s - It’s never going to be what you want.” 

Tomas stares at her for an uncomfortable length of time. A muscle leaps at his jaw. Then, he tosses his pen down, and crosses his arms. “In that case, I will not be endorsing your thesis for examination.”

Lysithea glances down, unable to hold his gaze any longer. Her fingers are still clenched around the pen, poised to take notes upon a blank page. She closes the notebook, and clips the pen into its sheath. 

She grabs her bag, stands, and is surprised when her legs support her. “Then I suppose we are finished here.”

As she reaches the door, Tomas’ voice gives her pause. “You’re making a mistake, Miss Ordelia.”

She doesn't answer. Her fingers rest upon the door's handle. She pushes the door open, and walks out into the hallway. 

When the door closes behind her, Lysithea stands in the hallway for a long moment, unsure of exactly what to do. She looks at the opposite wall, at the abstract painting of a cancerous cell hanging there, until she begins to walk. Her feet carry her down the hallway in a daze, and Lysithea does not think of her destination. Indeed, she has no destination in mind, but her legs seem to know.

She strides towards her own office, but freezes when she sees that Hilda's door is open; she must have just finished her lecture. Lysithea approaches, and walks in without a word.

Hilda is wearing earphones. She hums merrily along to a song that is playing on her phone while she texts simultaneously. Upon noticing Lysithea's presence in the doorway, she glances up, beaming. "Hey! What's up?"

Lysithea's mouth opens, but no sound comes out. 

Hilda frowns, and reaches up to take out her headphones. "Sorry, I didn't catch that."

"Um -" Lysithea swallows and tries again. Her hands are trembling uncontrollably now. "I - uh - I just had a meeting with Tomas, and he told me he isn't going to support my thesis."

Hilda looks blankly at her, as though she had not understood what was said. "I'm sorry -- what?"

The words fall from Lysithea’s mouth in a torrent she can’t stop. "He - He said that I would need to collect more data and rewrite whole sections for clarity, but I don't - I don't have time. I came to the university on a grant basis, which pays for full tuition and ensures I have a job, and it runs out in three months, and if I don't submit - if I drag this out any longer I'm not going to be able to stay without paying out of pocket, and my family isn't - I can't ask El to do this for me. I can’t go home like this. I can’t do that. My parents are - they aren’t -"

The world is spinning at the edges. Her chest aches, and it is difficult to breathe. Lysithea hardly registers the fact that Hilda has risen to her feet and shut the door so they are alone. Gentle hands are suddenly on her shoulders, but Lysithea flinches so abruptly she drops her pen and notebook.

"Woah. Okay. No touchy. Got it." Hilda turns off the lights, and twists the blinds shut so that the room is dimmed and nobody can peer inside. 

Faint music is still playing from Hilda’s headphones. The cheery pop tune is a stark contrast to the all-consuming panic that washes over her. The whole scene feels surreal, like she’s watching herself drown in a dream. She covers her face with one shaking hand. Her breaths are sharp and rapid against her palm. Lysithea closes her eyes and tries to will the world to stop turning so that she can collect herself -- just for a moment. 

"Do you have your phone on you?" Hilda mumbles as if to herself. This time when Lysithea feels a hand start to sneak into her bag, she does not move away. 

Hilda grabs Lysithea's phone and pulls up the screen. She unlocks it without any trouble, and starts flicking through the contact list before lifting the phone to her ear. 

A familiar voice answers on the other line, but without the speaker on, Lysithea can't quite tell what Edelgard is saying.

"Hi! Nope. It's Hilda. Yeah, sorry, no time to chat. Lysithea is having a bit of a meltdown right now, and I need you to talk to her, okay?"

A touch at her wrist. Hilda gently tugs Lysithea's arm down so that she can press the phone between her fingers. 

Trying to calm her breathing, Lysithea's voice is still a trembling mess when she says, "H-Hello?"

"Lys," Edelgard sounds grave and concerned. "What happened?"

Lysithea gasps on a sob. She tries to bite it back. Her teeth dig into her lower lip hard enough that she can feel them cut into skin. Her eyes burn, everything goes blurry, and suddenly it's all coming out in a rush. 

Edelgard listens while Lysithea babbles on the phone about the events of the day, and even her silence is thunder-graven, as though she were hanging off of Lysithea's every word. When Lysithea finally stops to choke on a sob and wipe at her cheeks, Edelgard says in a soothing tone. 

"You know I wouldn't let that happen."

"No, El."

"Lysithea -"

"No!" Lysithea has to lower the phone for a moment to compose herself. She roughly drags the back of her hand across her eyes, and brings the phone back up. "Accepting gifts is one thing but this is - this is too much. I can't. You can't solve everything for me with money. I don't want you to. I just - I just want -"

For this to have never happened. To submit her thesis. To pass. To graduate. To teach. To live without something horrible looming on the horizon, like she had for so long.

"I know," Edelgard murmurs. "And if that's what you want, of course I will respect that. But it isn't weakness to let others help you. This isn't the end of it. There is a way to solve this. You just have to find out how."

It takes a good fifteen minutes on the phone with Edelgard for Lysithea to finally get her breathing under control. By then, she has sunk down to sit on the ground, her back leaning against the wall. Hilda is sitting on the corner of her desk nearby, waiting patiently even as her foot jiggles and her fingers play with one of the gold bangles at her wrist.

Edelgard’s voice sounds distant for a moment as she pulls the phone away to speak to someone else, “Just another moment, Hubert. I’m almost done.” She brings the phone back. “I’m sorry. I really need to go.”

“Yeah,” Lysithea closes her eyes, and leans her head back against the wall. “I know you do.” 

“I will call you tomorrow.”

“Alright.” 

“Can you put Hilda back on the phone?”

Wordlessly, Lysithea holds the phone out, and feels Hilda cautiously take it from her. 

“Y-ello?” Hilda chirps into the phone. “Nah, it’s fine. Got it. Yup. Yuuup. I said I got it, didn’t I?  _ Geesh. _ Sure thing. Bye.” 

Lysithea’s eyes are still closed. She can hear the soft beep of the call being ended, followed by silence. She opens her eyes when Hilda sits down gingerly beside her. Their thighs are pressed together. Lysithea stares down at both their shoes; her own outstretched feet stop midway somewhere between Hilda’s calves and ankles. 

“I’m sorry,” Lysithea says; she sounds raspy and wooden to her own ears.

“Sorry?” Hilda stares at the side of her face, incredulous. “For what? Tomas being a bully?”

"For -" Lysithea waves at herself and then at Hilda's office. "- barging in here and just -"

"Oh, no. You don't have to apologise for that. You know how many people in their mid-twenties I have made cry in these very walls?" Hilda leans in closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.  _ "So many." _

Lysithea can't keep a watery laugh at bay. She wipes at her eyes again, and sniffles. "What if he's right? What if it's all complete rubbish, and I've just wasted the last three years of my life?"

"Look at me." Hilda tugs at Lysithea's hand until she reluctantly glances up. Hilda is wearing a stern expression, as though she has just been insulted. "Are you calling me a liar?"

Lysithea blinks in confusion. "What -?"

"Because that's what it sounds like to me."

"Hilda, I don't -"

"Seriously though. Seriously. Have you ever known me to spout platitudes just to make someone feel better?"

Slowly, Lysithea shakes her head.

"That's right," Hilda says. She runs her thumb across Lysithea's fingers. The gold and coral rings she wears are warm from prolonged contact with her skin. "Because I am many things. Brilliant. Talented. Funny. Gorgeous -"

Lysithea's laugh is weak, but she can still feel the smile splitting her face.

"- but a liar is not one of them. I’m a modern day Oracle of Delphi; I only speak divine truths, which no one is ready to hear or appreciate," Hilda continues. "And your thesis is good. Alright? It's really good. And Tomas may be playing some fucked up game that's unfairly involved you. I don't know what it is. Maybe he's after more grant money. Or maybe he's just a dick. Personally, my money is on the latter of those two options. Occam’s razor, or whatever."

"I don't know," Lysithea sighs. 

She allows Hilda to keep playing with her hand. She even responds, turning her palm face up and curling her fingers so that their hands are laced together. It doesn't last long; Hilda is terrible at keeping still. Soon, she's toying with Lysithea's fingertips again like they're her own personal playdough putty. 

"What am I going to do?" Lysithea says softly.

Hilda mulls over that for a moment before replying. "Well, it's your thesis, you know? And a supervisor's role is to supervise. Which is very tautological of me, but tautology has its place in the world irregardless of the fact that it's mostly bunk. So, my point still stands. It's your thesis. And technically speaking you don't need a supervisor's permission to submit it. You can just submit it on your own."

Lysithea stares at their hands, and then at Hilda herself, who is watching her intently. "But how would I find examiners, or - or -? I don't know the process behind the bureaucracy."

"No," Hilda drawls the vowel out as if savouring it in her mouth. "But there are other people in the department who do."

"I can't go to Judith," Lysithea says, adamant. "She was taught by Tomas! He's the professor with the longest tenure in the school, let alone the department! He's untouchable."

Hilda uses her free hand to tap the tip of Lysithea's nose.  _ "Au contraire. _ He’s very touchable.” Realising what she has just said, Hilda makes a disgusted face. “Oh,  _ ew.  _ Forget I said that. Anyway! I wasn’t talking about Judith.”

“Then who do you -?” Lysithea’s eyes widen, and she pales. “You can’t mean Rhea.”

“Directly to Rhea,” Hilda confirms. “Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.”

“I can’t do that. He would be so mad.” Lysithea even checks over her shoulder towards the closed office door and drawn windows, as if he were a boogeyman lurking just outside and eavesdropping on every word. 

“Yeah, well. Maybe he should’ve thought of that before being a fuckwad.” Hilda slips her hand free of Lysithea’s in order to shuffle a little upright and turn towards her. “Listen. I get it. Rhea puts the fear of god in me, too. But she’s the Dean. She is literally everyone’s boss. And as part of her job description, she is supposed to weigh in on these things when they crop up. Speaking of cropping -- do you want me to dismember Tomas horribly?” 

Though Hilda is smiling when she asks it, her eyes are very cold and her voice very serious.

Lysithea takes a moment to mull the offer over. “Tempting, but no. Thank you.”

“Oh, anytime. You need someone’s ass kicked? You call me.” 

“Isn’t that job reserved for older siblings, not younger ones?”

“Well, la-dee-da, Miss Only Child! When did you suddenly become an expert on sibling relationships? I’ll have you know, I kicked many a deserving ass without my brother’s help.” Hilda pauses, then adds. “That being said, if Holst were to kick someone, their individual vertebrae would pop out of their mouth like a pez dispenser.”

Lysithea pats Hilda’s knee in a consoling fashion. “Don’t worry. I’m sure if you bulked up some more, you too could kick someone into low Earth orbit like a Saturn V rocket.”

“Aww...That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.” 

“Yes, nothing says romance like a girl stumbling into your office and blubbering like an idiot for thirty minutes,” Lysithea says dryly. It is a testament to Hilda’s skill at distracting her that Lysithea is even able to summon up a bit of sarcasm right now. 

In answer, Hilda uses the edge of the table to pull herself to her feet. Then she turns to offer Lysithea a hand. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

“But -” Lysithea starts to protest, but Hilda shakes her head.

“No way. You’re not staying here after this fustercluck. Take the rest of the day off. And tomorrow, too. I know you have lectures tomorrow, but I’ll bet my studded McQueen boots that you haven’t missed a single day of class this term, so don’t even think about coming into work. Now,” Hilda wraps her scarf around her neck, and hoists her black bag over her shoulder. “Do you want to go to your place or mine? Up to you.”

At the thought of having to explain this whole thing again to each of her flatmates as they come home, Lysithea cringes. “Yours, please.”

“Great choice. I’ve got that pizza place’s phone number burning a hole in my pocket, and enough ice cream in my freezer to tranquilise a horse.”

Lysithea lets herself be pulled up from where she is seated on the floor. Crying has completely drained her, and the promise of food does little to rouse her appetite. If she had gone back to her own place, she wouldn’t have eaten at all that evening. Indeed, the idea of curling up on the ground and sleeping for the next thousand years seems like the best available option, but Hilda is already opening the door for them to go. 

As they step out into the hallway, Lysithea briefly considers grabbing her laptop from her office, but the thought makes her stomach turn, so she leaves it behind. Walking to the elevators means walking past Tomas’ office, and Lysithea skulks behind Hilda the whole way. She doesn’t relax until they are leaving the building entirely and striding across the snowy street towards the train station. 

Arriving at Hilda’s apartment feels like reaching the promised land. The familiar clutter draped over every surface, and the smell of Hilda’s perfume on the air might as well be salvation. 

Hilda flings her bag into a corner of her bedroom, and taps away at her phone to turn on her automated heating system as well as order them a pizza with all the trimmings. Without needing to be told or ask permission, Lysithea opens up one of the drawers to pull out a spare set of Hilda’s overly large sweatpants and t-shirt for pajamas. 

She wanders into the restroom, but doesn’t bother to lock the door. She runs a bath, and strips. The hot water scalds at first, then cools to just the right temperature. She cries a bit more. She lets the bath wash away the day’s events until Hilda is knocking on the door to announce that their food has arrived, and that the delivery boy was a seven. 

Lysithea emerges from the bathroom with wet hair, dressed in Hilda’s clothes. She flicks a quick email off to her students on her phone that she is feeling unwell and will be unable to make it to tomorrow’s lectures, while Hilda opens the pizza box in the kitchen and puts a few slices onto a single plate for them to share. 

Four episodes of a netflix show and a tub of ice cream later, the world outside has fallen to an early wintry night. Snow gathers on the windowsill, illuminated by the glow of the laptop on the bed between them. It’s barely nine in the evening, but snuggled up beneath the warm sheets Lysithea yawns. Hilda shuts the lid of the laptop and sets it on the ground. The room is plunged into a quiet darkness. Rolling over to face the window, Lysithea buries her head into her pillow.

The mattress dips slightly as Hilda shuffles around. “You still in no touchy mode? Or are cuddles acceptable?”

In answer, Lysithea gropes around in the dark for Hilda’s hand. She finds her wrist, and pulls it over so that Hilda’s arm is wrapped around her stomach. Lysithea lets her eyes fall shut as Hilda curls up against her. And as she drifts off, she dreams that Hilda presses a chaste kiss to the back of her neck. 

* * *

Lysithea decides she is very bad at playing hooky. She spends the day at Hilda’s apartment. She tries to not do work -- she really does -- but the itch is so overwhelming that it’s a relief to use Hilda’s tablet to plan her Friday lecture. 

She may not have had the crossword with Hilda that morning, but at least she can do one thing that feels normal and routine. Today of all days, Lysithea clings to any creature comforts she can get her hands on. And if that means meticulously planning out notes and a slideshow for a two hour lecture, then that's what she's going to do, god damn it.

Eventually however even that isn't enough to keep her occupied. Hilda had promised to return early from the university, but without her the apartment feels haunted by her absence. More than once Lysithea looks up, ready to speak to Hilda only to realise that she's not there. Disappointment twists her gut, which only makes her frown and throw herself back into her work with more zeal than before. By the time it reaches one in the afternoon, Lysithea has finished with her notes, and has even added a few extra slides to her powerpoint in case she needs to pad out the time, leaving her with nothing to do.

Opening a new tab in the browser, Lysithea goes to the university website. She looks up the dean's page. She chews nervously at her lower lip as she stares at Rhea's email address. And then, before she can convince herself that it's a bad idea, she copies the address and pastes it into the send bar.

The email she sends to Rhea is simple, a request for a meeting to discuss her main supervisor.

No sooner has Lysithea put down the tablet and gone hunting through Hilda's kitchen for the ingredients for a hot chocolate, than she hears a faint chime of an email in her inbox from the other room. It takes her very little time these days to find things in Hilda's apartment, and she returns to the tablet with a mug of steaming cocoa, complete with whipped cream and a cinnamon stick as a garnish. 

She almost drops the mug when she sees that Rhea has already responded to the email.

_ 'Of course. I have fifteen minutes in between meetings tomorrow at 3:30pm. Your schedule permitting, come around to my office then. -Rhea, President of the University for Biology and Medicine, Dean, Division of Biological Sciences and Physical Sciences, PhD.' _

Lysithea takes a hasty gulp of cocoa that's too hot, but the scalding grounds her. Her stomach was a hive of anxious activity again. She didn't know if she could handle another meeting like the one she'd had with Tomas just yesterday all in the same week. 

And the worst part about it is that Hilda was right. And Lysithea just knows that Hilda is going to be insufferable about it. 

* * *

Lysithea sits in a chair outside the dean's office. The walls in this level of the building are sleek and wood-paneled. She feels excruciatingly out of place with her knee-length skirt and tattered old notebook clutched in her hand. For the fourth time since arriving and being told by the assistant to take a seat while she waited, Lysithea checks her watch. As she turns over her wrist, the door to her right opens, and she nearly jumps out of her skin. 

Rhea stands in the doorway, wearing a white dress. Her hair is long, extending down her back, and from beneath the hem of her dress Lysithea can just see the hint of sandals, the kind that Hilda would have liked and therefore must have been fashionable. On anyone else, the outfit would have made the wearer appear to be an ancient Graecian noblewoman or perhaps a lost ghost from a gothic Victorian novel, but on Rhea it just makes her look sleek and imposing. 

Rhea opens the door a little wider and steps back in a wordless invitation. "Miss Ordelia. I'm glad you could make it."

Lysithea rises to her feet. When she slips past Rhea, she tries to stand a little straighter, but it has very little effect. Rhea is one of the tallest people she's met, and somehow Lysithea always feels even shorter when around her. As though Rhea were not tall at all, but that other people were merely too short to stand beside her and meet her gaze. 

"Thank you," Lysithea says. She holds her notebook and pen in both hands as though they were a shield. "I really appreciate you making the time to meet with me so promptly."

"Not at all." Rhea closes the door so that they are alone in the office. She gestures to a chair. "Please. Sit."

The office is large enough to house an enormous desk on one end, and a seating area for guests in another. Also an entire wall of floor to ceiling bookcases, complete with a marble bust of some religious figure or another that Lysithea does not immediately recognise. Rhea had gestured towards the desk half of the room, so Lysithea takes one of the seats there.

Rhea meanwhile rounds her desk and sits behind it as though seating herself upon a throne. She leans her elbows on the polished wood surface, her gaze sharp and green and attentive. "How can I help you?"

For a moment Lysithea fiddles with the lavender-coloured ribbon that marks her place in the notebook. Then, steadying herself, she explains the events of not just yesterday but the last year during which all her troubles with Tomas began. 

Rhea listens, calm, never once interrupting. Her face is a mask of composure. Lysithea wishes she could read her, but Rhea has always come across as cold and distant no matter the occasion, be it during Lysithea’s entrance interviews, or during departmental holiday parties. It makes Lysithea even more nervous, and more than once she has to pause to collect herself before she can continue once more.

Finally, when Lysithea stops, Rhea speaks. "First, allow me to apologise on the university's behalf. Students in your position are vulnerable to this sort of behaviour, as they are reliant upon their supervisors for advice and information through a very stressful time. Had this issue been brought to my attention sooner, I might have been able to act upon it then."

Hearing that, Lysithea can feel the small ballooning of hope in her chest fade. But then Rhea continues. 

"However, I believe the solution to your problem is quite simple at this point. I understand that there are certain time sensitive elements to your employment and connection to this programme, but this works in your favour, not against it.” Rhea raps her fingers against the desk as she speaks; her fingernails are painted a pale green, like Wedgwood porcelain, or the shell of an egg. “I am going to make the recommendation that Tomas’ supervisory role be transferred immediately. I will ensure the paperwork is expedited so as to take into account your grant deadline, but I will need you to first send me an email outlining everything you have told me here today. Spare no detail.”

Lysithea blinks in confusion, wondering for a brief moment if she has heard that incorrectly. “You’re going to give me a new supervisor?” she asks slowly. 

Rhea cocks her head to one side. “No. While I understand that due to the interdisciplinary nature of your work that you had two supervisors, I trust that between you and Dr. Essar, you will deliver a more than passable thesis. Unless you take objection with this option?”

Lysithea shakes her head furiously. “No! No, this is fine. Thank you.”

Hanneman as her sole supervisor. It’s better than fine. It’s what she wishes had happened to begin with, but which she only could have known in hindsight. 

“Excellent. Now,” Rhea leans forward in her seat. Her glass-green gaze is fixed and unblinking, like that of a great serpent. “Have you by any chance been keeping record of specific dates and notes of your meetings with Tomas?”

Lysithea nods. She holds up her notebook and gives it a little wave before placing it back in her lap.

Rhea’s gaze flashes with something keen and sharp. “Good. Be sure to include those as well.”

“Might I ask -?” Lysithea hesitates, waiting for Rhea to give a slight incline of her head before continuing. “What exactly are you going to be doing with this information?”

Rhea smiles, and for the first time Lyisthea notices two things. One: that Rhea has not seemed to blink even once during this entire encounter. Two: that Rhea’s teeth are remarkably sharp.

“While I cannot speak too much on the matter outside of a confidential arrangement, I can tell you that yours is not an isolated incident, Miss Ordelia. Let us say that Tomas has a not insignificant file on record. Any details, any specifics at all you can give me may be instrumental in current proceedings.” Rhea’s long, pale, green-painted nails are like talons atop the darkly-varnished wooden desk. “So, do be sure to send me that email at the first available opportunity.”

* * *

Less than two weeks later, Tomas is no longer her supervisor, and Hanneman is signing the administrative paperwork to submit Lysithea’s thesis. That sense of unreality still hangs over her like a cloud. Hanneman hands her the pen to sign on her own dotted line, and it feels like reaching for a piece of candy that is going to be snatched away at a moment's notice. 

The giddiness starts up when Lysithea is carrying her final bound and printed thesis copies from her office for submission. There's a bounce in her step that she hasn't felt in ages. There are two copies of over two hundred pages each, bound in white with her name in simple gold lettering embossed on the cover. 

Her step falters when she has to walk by Tomas' office. She had avoided him ever since that meeting. Every day where she went without seeing him was a day she breathed a sigh of relief. Today however, as she strode down the hall towards the elevators, she noticed his office door was wide open. 

Lysithea walks a little faster, but then pauses. She turns and peers into Tomas' office. 

The desk and chairs remain, but the shelves are empty. Indeed, all personal affects seem to have vanished. Tomas himself is nowhere to be seen.

Her grip upon the twin copies of her thesis slackens. As if she had seen a ghost, Lysithea hurries off towards the elevator, stabbing at the button with her finger to call the lift from the second floor. Her heart is hammering in her chest, and her mind whirls at the speed of light. 

Upstairs, she drops off her thesis copies and the forms Hanneman had signed onto the desk of one of the dean's many administrators. The woman seated at the desk checks over all the paperwork before stamping it with an official seal that she then signs and dates. Afterwards, she smiles up at Lysithea, and ensures her that everything is completed. She also reminds Lysithea that neither she nor Hanneman are to attempt to contact the examiners in any way, no matter how long the process takes. 

"You will hear from the dean when your examination results are in," the administrator assures her. 

"Thank you," Lysithea says for what must be the fifth time since she arrived just moments ago to turn everything in.

"Not a problem. Go. Relax." The administrator waves at her in a kindly fashion. "Try to think about something else for a while. You've earned a break."

"Thanks," Lysithea repeats, then realising that she has said it yet again, turns to leave. 

The dean's offices are located on the top floor of the building. Between the wood-paneling and the statues and the light streaming through the stained-glass windows, it feels like standing in the wing of a cathedral. Lysithea bounces on the balls of her feet, and hums to herself as she waits for the elevators to make their long haul back up to this floor. Before the elevators can arrive however, someone steps up beside her.

"Good afternoon." Rhea smiles down at her in that chillingly beatific way of hers. 

"Hello." Lysithea tries to return the smile, but it feels tremulous all the same. 

They stand in silence. Lysithea watches the light counting the floors over the shining elevator doors. She has never thought of herself as being a particularly fidgety person, but beside Rhea's poise, Lysithea feels like a child unable to keep her hands and feet still for longer than a few seconds. Perhaps she really has been spending too much time with Hilda lately.

The doors open, and Rhea gestures for her to enter first before following after her. Lysithea hits the seventh floor button, while Rhea presses the third. As the elevator doors slide shut, the image of Tomas' empty office puts an immediate dampener on Lysithea's recent triumph. The elevator shudders, then begins its descent. 

Bracing herself, Lysithea turns towards Rhea and asks, "Excuse me for asking this, but I was walking past Tomas’ office and - well. What happened to him?"

Rhea does not glance in her direction, instead watching the floor counter overhead. "I fired him."

Lysithea stares. "You - You what?"

"Perhaps I misspoke," Rhea says in that same decorous tone she always seems to use. "There was an official panel inquiry by the board of directors, and then I fired him."

Finally, Rhea looks over at her, and all of a sudden Lysithea very much wishes she hadn't. 

Lysithea drops her gaze to study her own shoes. The long hem of Rhea's elegant dress brush against her ankles, and Lysithea has to resist the urge to shuffle further away. She thinks of all the notes she had typed up and sent to Rhea in that email, all the dates, all the hours Tomas had spent berating her over data and clarity and other nonsense, all the correspondence she had forwarded between them. Damning evidence, to be sure, but she never could have dreamed it would be enough to get someone with that much history at an academic institution actually fired.

Somehow she knows even without looking in Rhea's direction that Rhea has turned her attention away again. 

"I really ought to thank you. The panel had already been meeting for over a month at various times. Your notes came at just the right time."

Lysithea's head spins. She swallows past an obstruction in her throat, but does not trust herself to speak.

"Though I should also tell you that this was not your doing alone. Tomas tied his own noose long before you arrived on the scene.” Rhea gives a wave of one hand, as if trying to clear the air of flies. “He was near impossible to get rid of due to his tenure, and so I began building a case against him some time ago. You were merely the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back.”

Despite Rhea's obvious attempt at mollifying, Lysithea does not feel very soothed by her words. After a few seconds of chilly silence, Lysithea manages to croak out a weak, "Oh."

Rhea hums a note at the back of her throat as if in agreement. The elevator slows its descent, and Lysithea is eager to escape being alone with Rhea in a small steel box. When the seventh floor illuminates on the screen, and the doors slide open, Lysithea nearly trips over her own feet in her haste. 

“Miss Ordelia?”

Lysithea hesitates, and glances over her shoulder.

Rhea is smiling that cold smile of hers, a smile that never seems to touch her eyes. “Congratulations on your submission.”

* * *

The moment Lysithea returns to her office, feeling dazed and bewildered from her run in with the dean, Hilda is already waiting for her. 

"You all done?" Hilda asks. She stands leaning against the closed and locked door to Lysithea's office. Her thumbs tap away at something on her phone, but after a moment she puts her phone away and awaits Lysithea's answer with an expectant expression.

Lysithea nods. "All done. It's submitted. Now, I wait."

A slow smile spreads across Hilda's face. She pushes off from the door, and links her arm through Lysithea's so that she can steer her back down the hallway towards the elevators.

"Where are we going?" Lysithea asks. 

"Out to celebrate." Hilda hands over Lysithea's own bag, presumably pinched from her office just earlier. "You forgot this at home, by the way."

_ "Oh." _ Lysithea flushes. 

So, not pinched from her office, then. Lysithea must have been so distracted this morning at the thought of printing and submitting her thesis that she had left her bag behind at Hilda's apartment, where she had been staying for -- well, for weeks now. 

At this point, Lysithea is greeted with surprise by her flatmates when she actually returns to her own apartment. 

Hilda drags her back to Claude's bar, which Lysithea has learned was her favourite haunt in the city, though certainly not the only trendy place she frequented on her nights on the town. It's only three in the afternoon, but still the bar is flooded with customers. When they enter, Hilda waves at a few people as they call out to her. One or two even flash Lysithea a familiar smile as well, to which Lysithea reacts with pleased puzzlement. 

She has never been recognised at a bar before. Especially not one like this.

Hilda breezes her way through a few customers to get at the bar and order drinks. Lysithea has a soda, but despite the hour Hilda orders herself a fruity drink with more vodka than sense. Grabbing up both their drinks, Hilda heads towards her usual seat in the house: a series of rich leather couches on a raised platform like incredibly comfortable thrones upon a dais. The walls behind them are festooned with gold-lacquered deer antlers for which the establishment takes its name. A well-stocked fireplace keeps this area warmer than the others. Logs are meticulously stacked against one of the walls all the way up to the ceiling to give the impression that they are lounging in a luxury lodge in the middle of the woods.

Hilda leans back into one corner of the couch, her feet propped on the low table before them. From her seat, she can see everyone in the room, and they can all see her. Lysithea feels like she’s on stage sitting next to Hilda here. And indeed a few other customers glance curiously in their direction.

“So,” Hilda sips at her drink, and says around the bright yellow straw, “how was Rhea?”

“Terrifying,” Lysithea admits truthfully. 

Hilda sniggers. “You gotta admit though: she gets results.”

“She fired Tomas.”

“Good. I never liked that guy anyway. Gave me the creeps the first time I met him.” When Lysithea squirms somewhat in her seat and doesn’t answer, Hilda rolls her eyes. “Oh,  _ please  _ don’t tell me you feel guilty about this.”

Lysithea frowns, indignant and a little irritated that Hilda can read her so easily. “I just wish we could’ve found a better way around this whole situation.”

“Honestly? To be honest? To be perfectly frank?” Hilda gestures emphatically around the drink in her hand. “I think everyone got what they deserved. Tomas got fired. Yay. Hanneman gets to be your main supervisor. Yay again. Good for him. And you got to submit your thesis on time.  _ Double yay.”  _

Lysithea still hasn’t touched her soda. It remains on the table, atop a coaster because she remembered from the last time their visit how one of the wait staff had scolded Hilda for not using one. 

“And you?” she asks.

Hilda tilts her head. “Me?”

“What did you get?”

For a moment, Hilda appears utterly puzzled by the question. Then, she snorts. “I got to help a friend.  _ Duh.”  _

It occurs to Lysithea then that of all the times she had thanked everyone throughout this process -- Rhea, Edelgard, Hanneman, even the administrator whose name she couldn’t remember -- she hadn’t thanked Hilda. Thanking her for offering to maim Tomas just doesn’t feel the same. 

“Thank you,” Lysithea says. "I don't know what I would've done without you."

"Oh,  _ pssht!" _ Hilda waves her away. "I didn't do anything. You and Edelgard and Hanneman and Rhea did all the work. I was just an accessory."

Lysithea shakes her head. "You and I both know that's not true. If you hadn't been here, I probably would've given up."

"Bull. Shit." Hilda slams her drink down on the broad arm of the couch, where it teeters precariously. "You would've pulled through just fine. You're amazing! I've never met anyone more resilient and hard working. Not gonna lie, it's a bit spooky. You were, like, super intimidating when I first met you."

The idea that Hilda could have been intimidated by anything let alone by Lysithea is ludicrous. Lysithea doesn't believe it for a second. She scoffs.

"That's ridiculous. I'm not special. Not like you. I'm just diligent, whereas you're -" Lysithea gestures to Hilda, "- actually gifted. You just chose to be lazy. And even then you make it all seem so effortless. I wish I were more like that."

“As much as I just love being complimented, the sincerity of your delivery is kinda starting to freak me out. Are you feeling alright?” Hilda reaches over to test the temperature of Lysithea’s forehead.

Lysithea doesn’t pull back, but she does scowl. “I’m trying to express my gratitude!”

“Yeah, well, gratitude expressed. I’m great, and you’re welcome. Anyway -”

Lysithea isn’t letting her off the hook that easily. She sits up a little straighter on the couch and looks Hilda dead in the eye. “I mean it. It’s important to me that you know that I - well, I -”

The dim lights of the bar wash the room in a golden sepia glow. The fire flickers and warms the air around them. Hilda is watching her with an expression that can only be described as star-struck, and Lysithea wonders how long Hilda has looked at her like that for, or if this is just the first time she’s noticed. 

“- appreciate you,” Lysithea finishes slowly. “And everything you’ve done for me.”

A steady flush rises up Hilda’s cheeks until her face is bright pink. Lysithea stares. Hilda is the first to break eye contact. She snatches up her drink, and slouches back against the couch to sip at the straw, holding the glass like she’s trying to hide behind it. 

It hits Lysithea like a freight train, the sudden realisation. Her jaw goes slack. Hilda has already recovered, and is striking up some new spirited conversation about the band that’s setting up across the room, but Lysithea can barely hear over the blood-dimmed rush in her ears, roaring like the tide. 

She doesn’t know what’s worse. That she now has to wait a harrowing few months to find out if her thesis has passed. Or the newfound knowledge that she is absolutely, irrevocably head over heels in love with Hilda Goneril. 


	5. Chapter 5

The fact that Lysithea manages to last nearly four hours at the bar after her epiphany is nothing short of valiant. She spends a great deal of that time stealing furtive glances at Hilda, who eventually notices and teases her with a rakish smile and a quip of: "Do I have something on my face? Or am I just that good looking?"

Whereas normally Lysithea would have rolled her eyes and fired back with a sarcastic remark, now she flushes and changes the topic as quickly as possible. Hilda laughs, but lets it go, which allows Lysithea to breathe easier. If she had continued to tease, Lysithea doesn't know what she would have done. 

As it is, Hilda invites her over, and looks disappointed but not unhappy when Lysithea declines. 

"I should probably make sure my flatmates remember what I look like," Lysithea says. 

Hilda gives a theatrical sigh. "Their gain is my loss. I'll see you later, then!"

When they part at the train station, Lysithea thinks that's the end of that for the evening, but then Hilda pops up on a different platform in full view. They end up miming at each other across the tracks, until Lysithea hears a train coming, at which point her phone buzzes in her pocket. Lysithea fires back a few texts of her own until her train pulls up along the platform. 

As she sits down and the doors close, she can still see Hilda bowed over her own phone on the platform over. Lysithea's phone pings in her hand and vibrates. She tightens her hold around it, and watches Hilda for as long as she can until the train carries her away down the tracks. 

Somehow it feels like she's left her stomach behind on the platform.

That heavy sensation in her gut doesn't go away when she arrives back at her own apartment. When she steps inside, Raphael pokes his head out of his room, having to duck down so as not to smack his forehead against the lintel. His face brightens with pleased surprise at the sight of her taking off her shoes in the entryway.

"Hey! Lysithea's actually back! Hey, Lysithea!"

"Hi," she waves at him, trying to summon up a smile that she knows must appear glum in spite of her best efforts.

He ducks through the door, concern written across his face. "What's wrong? I thought you and the dean had solved everything, and you were submitting today?"

"No, no. Everything's fine," Lysithea lies. "I submitted today."

In response, her flatmate gives a great whoop, and lifts her off the ground in a bear hug that leaves her gasping past a few crushed ribs. She pats him on the back until he lets her go.

"Well done! That's so exciting! Hey, Ignatz! Did you hear?" Raphael sets her down on the ground, and immediately races off, barging into Ignatz's room to deliver the good news. 

Lysithea takes the opportunity to sneak off to her own room, and shut the door. She leans against the door, her head falling back and her eyes falling shut. She takes a long moment to steady her breathing, but it does nothing to slow the hammering of her heart in her chest. 

Her phone buzzes in her pocket, and her heart rate doubles in an instant. Cautiously, Lysithea unlocks her phone. A surge of mingled relief and disappointment floods through her when she sees that it's Edelgard texting her this time. 

The fact that she's disappointed makes her irritated at herself. She sends a reply to Edelgard confirming that her thesis was submitted, and gets back an immediate text that's just a single exclamation point. 

Briefly, Lysithea considers ringing Edelgard up and telling her about her latest revelation, but the very idea makes her face redden. Instead, she drops her bag onto the ground, walks over to her bed -- which has remained pristine and untouched for ages now -- and flops facefirst onto the mattress. 

Her phone buzzes and chimes again. Lysithea groans into the sheets. For a moment she doesn't move. Then, sluggish, she glances at what texts she has received in the last forty seconds. 

Hilda has sent through a blurry picture of her laptop on her bed, a tub of Lysithea's favourite flavoured ice cream, and the latest big horror show on Netflix. The very title screen of the show makes a prickle of fear run down Lysithea's spine. The picture is captioned with: _ 'Look at what you're missing out on' _

She furiously sends back an answering text._ 'You are an asshole.' _

Hilda laughs in return, and even though it's all in the form of way too many emojis, Lysithea can still hear the ghost of her laughter as though she were back at Hilda's apartment, sitting beside her on the bed. 

Lysithea flings her phone further away on her own mattress, and grabs a pillow so she can bury her head in it. It doesn't help. 

Later that night, it takes her forever to fall asleep. Everything about her own room feels off, like she's sleeping in a stranger's house. She tosses and turns, until finally, grumbling all the while, she creates a vaguely human-shape in the bed beside her with a number of spare pillows. Pillow-Hilda lacks the warmth of the real deal. 

Lysithea hates the fact that she has allowed herself to grow so accustomed to sleeping beside another person. 

* * *

The weekend passes without incident. Lysithea is at a loss for how to fill her time now that she no longer has to worry about her thesis. She finishes her lecture notes and power point presentations for the entire next week, and then twiddles her thumbs until she finally relents and keys in her phone's passcode.

There are a heap of texts and replies from both Hilda and Edelgard. Her thumb hovers over a phone number. She chews anxiously on her lower lip for a solid minute, before gathering up enough courage to actually hit the button.

The dial tone rings a few times, and Lysithea is tempted to hang up and pretend that nobody is going to answer. But then Edelgard picks up.

"Congratulations again," Edelgard says by way of a greeting, and her voice is warm.

"Thank you." 

Lysithea is sitting on the couch in the living room. Ignatz is at the art studio, Raphael is at practice, and Marianne is sleeping off her night shift. Lysithea sits on one of her hands, her knees squeezed tightly together, and her heels drumming against the base of the couch. 

There must be something in the tone of Lysithea's voice that clues her in, for Edelgard suddenly sounds sharp and serious. Business mode activated. "Is there something wrong?" 

"No, no!" Lysithea lies. "It's just - It's Hilda."

"What about her?" Edelgard's words are wary. "What has she done?"

"Nothing! She's -! She's great! She's -"

Brilliant. Talented. Funny. Gorgeous. Completely out of her league.

Lysithea has to pause for a moment before she can trust herself to speak without giving it all away. “I only wanted to call to see what you think of her.”

“What I _ think _of her? You realise I’ve never met her, and have only ever spoken to her a handful of times on the phone.” 

“...Yes?”

Edelgard does not answer immediately, and for a brief moment Lysithea fears the connection may have dropped. Then -

“My first impression was that Hilda is far more cunning than she lets on, but also that she has a loyal streak that is hard-earned and runs a mile wide,” Edelgard says with the kind of clinical precision she always employs when discussing stock prices or the abysmal state of the economy. “Why are you asking me this all of a sudden?”

"No particular reason."

"Somehow, I don't believe you," says Edelgard dryly.

"It's not -! It's nothing. Really. Just a stupid crush that will pass."

"A crush," Edelgard repeats.

Even hearing it repeated makes Lysithea's cheeks heat up. God, but it sounds so dumb. A crush. She feels like she's sixteen again, except without the impending threat of death looming over her shoulder.

“Haven’t you been living in her apartment?” Edelgard asks.

“Not technically!” 

_ “Lysithea.” _

Lysithea whines. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“You’re even starting to sound like her, you know.”

“Okay. I’m hanging up now.”

"Wait," Edelgard sighs. "In all honesty, I thought you two were having some sort of casual relationship."

Lysithea jerks the phone away from her to stare at it, before putting it back to her ear and saying incredulously, "When have you ever known me to do anything casual?"

"Alright, that's a fair point."

There's the sound of other faint voices down the other line, then a door opening and closing in the background, as though Edelgard were moving to another room. "And you want my opinion on the matter, do you?"

"Well -" Lysithea plays with the frayed seam of the couch's armrest. "Yes. I suppose I do."

"I think you could do a lot worse."

Frowning, Lysithea asks, "What does that even mean?"

"It means: I personally have very high standards, but I still think she’s a decent sort. It’s not my call, and I will of course support whatever decision you make."

"You're very unhelpful."

Lysithea can hear the exasperation in Edelgard's voice, "Fine. Don't date her, then."

"That's not -!” Lysithea splutters, but can’t admit aloud that that’s the very last thing she wants to do.

"Did you really just call me to confirm what you already know? You have obviously already made up your mind."

"Yeah, but -" Lysithea swallows past an obstruction in her throat. She has begun to pick the thread completely out of its stitching in the couch. It unravels beneath her nervous fingers. "-you know I can't just do that."

For a moment there's silence on the other end. Then Edelgard says softly. "I understand that this may be new territory, but -"

"That's - That's not it. Well, it sort of is." Lysithea sucks in a deep breath, then admits. "I _ really _ like her, El."

A long pause follows that statement, and then Edelgard says an emphatic, _ "Ah." _

“You know how it is. I never put much stock in romantic liaisons because -” Lysithea fumbles over how to phrase it in the least macabre way possible, “well, because I always believed the future was no place for me. Becoming involved with someone would be cruel to both parties involved, and one night stands with strangers aren’t exactly my style.”

Edelgard listens quietly, before replying. “But now the prognosis isn’t nearly so grim. We have time. Not as much as we might like, but it’s more than I, for one, ever expected. You shouldn’t give up on chasing the future.”

"Yeah," Lysithea says lamely. She grimaces at how non-committal she sounds even to her own ears. 

"You should talk to her."

"That," Lysithea says, "sounds even more terrifying than returning to the hospital."

"That bad?"

"That bad."

In the background of Edelgard's call, a door creaks open, and Hubert's voice murmurs something. Edelgard's answer is muffled as she places a hand over her phone, and then returns to crystal clarity once more. 

"You have to go," Lysithea prompts before Edelgard can even say anything.

"In just a moment, yes. But I am glad you called, actually. One of our directors lives out your way, and I've arranged for the next board meeting to take place at our building in the city. I should be able to take a bit of time out of my day for a personal visit."

At that, Lysithea perks up. "Really?"

Edelgard chuckles, a low, rich sound. "Yes. I'm only there for a weekend, but I figured we ought to celebrate you finishing your thesis."

"It's still undergoing examination," Lysithea points out. "It's a pass fail, you know. I might not -"

"You will. If it's you, I know you will," Edelgard says firmly. 

"What weekend?"

"Week after next."

Lysithea can feel herself smiling. "That sounds great. I can meet you wherever."

"Fantastic. Bring Hilda."

Lysithea's mouth goes dry. "Wh - What?"

"You heard me. And go talk to her, or else I will call her myself."

"You wouldn't dare. Edelgard. _ Edelgard!" _

The only response is the beep of the call ending. 

* * *

Lysithea doesn't ring Hilda. In fact, she does not speak to Hilda until the next morning, which in theory doesn't sound like a long time, but in practice is quite a long time for them. She is mildly surprised and concerned that her phone hasn't been lit up with texts or phonecalls for the remainder of her Sunday. She guesses that Hilda is either lazing the day away at her apartment, or out with some of her other friends.

Come Monday morning however, Lysithea sticks staunchly to routine. It would feel strange not to at this point. She arrives at the ground floor of the university with two coffees in hand. As she rounds the corner to the elevators, an irrational spike of fear streaks through her. Perhaps Hilda won't be there. Perhaps she has already messed this up somehow. Perhaps Hilda is already growing bored; she gets bored so easily, after all. It's possible, Lysithea convinces herself.

"Heyoo!" Hilda waves at her by the elevators. The button to call one of the elevators has already been pressed. Hilda makes a grabby motion towards one of the coffees in Lysithea's hands like she's a man happened upon in the desert and dying of thirst. "Ohhh, you have no idea how much I need coffee this morning."

Lysithea hands over the cup. She tries to act casual. "Did you have a good rest of your weekend?"

"Meh," Hilda shrugs. "Same old. Same old. Thought about doing laundry. Didn't do it. Went out for a bit. Worked out for a bit. Thought about working on another article. Made some jewelry instead."

The elevator doors open. They both step inside. "How many articles are you going to finish this year?" Lysithea asks, genuinely curious about the answer. She hits the button for the seventh floor and the elevator doors slide shut.

"Only three."

"Only three," Lysithea repeats, rolling her eyes. The floor counter rapidly rises as they are carried up the various levels of the building. 

Hilda gives a dramatic sigh. "Yes. I'm a shame to my people."

"Who? Sasquatches?" 

"You joke, but like -- yeah. Honestly. I keep forgetting you've never met my family," Hilda says around the lip of her takeaway cup as she takes a sip. "You really should. Then you'll understand."

"Alright," Lysithea says before she can pause to think about the implications of it. 

Hilda pauses and glances over at her. Slowly, she lowers her coffee cup. Behind her pink-lensed sunglasses her eyes rove downwards to Lysithea's chest. It is so blatant that Lysithea blinks in surprise. 

When Hilds takes a step towards her, Lysithea goes tense, but Hilda only reaches up with her free hand, and touches the sweater clip at the end of one of Lysithea's shirt collars. 

"I told you this would look nice on you," Hilda says. 

She toys with the fine gold chain between thumb and forefinger for a moment. Lysithea is frozen in place, unable to move. She almost does something very foolish and impulsive and quite unlike herself, when she is saved by the elevator doors announcing that they have arrived at their floor.

With a smile, Hilda lets go and walks through the elevator doors, leaving Lysithea standing there, heart pounding in her chest like she had just run a half marathon.

She is so flustered for the remainder of the day that she forgets to invite Hilda to lunch with Edelgard. 

* * *

Over the course of the week, Lysithea debates with herself whether she should even bring Hilda along to meet Edelgard. It doesn't help that Hilda is somehow more distracting than ever. She is sure that Hilda has changed nothing about her behaviour; it is just that Lysithea now notices every little thing that Hilda does. She is convinced that Hilda has always been so liberal with physical touch, but it's difficult to think whenever Hilda catches her staring and flashes a self-satisfied smile.

On Wednesday, Lysithea dares to bring to work the small makeup kit Hilda had given her ages ago. She had thought to try its various products on in her own bathroom, but she has to share one bathroom in her apartment between four people, and it's difficult enough for her to try putting on mascara for only the third time in her life when Raphael is pounding on the door groaning that he's going to be late.

Instead, she sneaks into one of the nice staff bathrooms at the university. The ones that have no stalls, and are just a single private restroom with an enormous mirror and enough bench space that she doesn't have to put her bag on the tiled floor. Pulling out the small makeup kit, Lysithea opens it and then gazes down at its contents, trying to recall all the advice she’d been given. 

Mostly she remembers Hilda touching her face while she had applied the makeup, but not much in the way of Hilda's actual instructions at the time. She had watched a few videos online however, and pulls out foundation and an appropriate brush. 

It's still far more difficult to do than Hilda had made it seem. Then again, Hilda was well versed in these kinds of things, and Lysithea had never wasted precious time with appearances when in the past she had to make every hour count. Now, trying to learn these things as an adult makes her feel clumsy and flustered. 

Lysithea takes her time. She applies a light and even layer of foundation, but then hesitates over eyeshadow. 

What was it Hilda had said? Bold makeup for stage, and subtle makeup for intimate interactions? A concept which only confronted her with the fact that she very much wanted to have _ ‘intimate interactions’ _with Hilda, whose bed she had been sharing for weeks if not longer, but which she had never considered before this moment. 

Lysithea has to pause to collect herself; she nearly dies of mortification right there over the sink. 

Finally, she just picks a colour at random. Something subtle. Not too much colour unless someone were to stand very close and look at her. Eyeliner, mascara, and then Lysithea is packing everything away before her presence is either noticed as missing, or someone else needs the restroom.

Later in the afternoon, Hilda knocks on the door to Lysithea's office before pushing it open without waiting for an answer. She strides in, idly fiddling with a pen, and sits on the desk beside where Lysithea had been typing away at her computer. 

"Hey! I was just going to -" Hilda breaks off what she was going to say, and leans closer with a glint in her eye. “Ohh! Is that purple eyeshadow from one of the samples I gave you? What’s the occasion?” She gives the pen a mischievous twirl between her fingers. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

Lysithea can feel her cheeks burn, but she doesn’t push her chair away from the table. “There’s no _ guy.” _

“Girl, then. Or -- you know --” Hilda clicks the pen multiple times, “- person. Whatever.”

“Why does there have to be a person at all?”

“Dressing up just to feel nice?” Hilda taps the pen against the underside of Lysithea’s chin, and winks. “You really are taking my advice! And here I thought you never listened to me.”

Lysithea snatches the pen from Hilda’s fingers. “I listen when you say something worth listening to. And this is mine!”

Hilda just shrugs. “Yeah, I stole it from you two months ago. Thought you would’ve noticed sooner, to be honest.” She pushes off from Lysithea’s desk, and starts walking down the hallway, talking all the while. “Anyway, let’s get coffee before your big date. I need caffeine before facing the horrible gremlins in Chem 104.”

“There’s no date!” Lysithea insists, but she is already following Hilda past the communal office kitchenette and lounge area. 

"Why not? I thought you were sooo 'dateable'."

"That's -! I mean -! _ I am!" _

“I’m very convinced right now,” Hilda says dryly.

Normally they had their conversations at work in the morning when nobody else was around. Now however the offices are scattered with people, and the two of them are beginning to attract a few stares. Or maybe it is just the first time Lysithea notices that other people are noticing them. Indeed, at least one of their colleagues just shakes his head with a rueful chuckle and returns to marking a stack of papers. 

It strikes her then that if Edelgard had thought she and Hilda we're dating -- even casually -- that others might, too. Lysithea seems to be the last person on the planet to know.

* * *

By the time the weekend comes around, Lysithea starts making up excuses as to why she can’t go over to Hilda’s apartment like she used to. At first it’s easy. Everyone in her apartment is lending a hand for a big spring clean, now that the snows have started to melt away and they can actually put things outside. Then, there's an apartment inspection by the landlord's agent that she needs to be present for, because all of her other flatmates have other commitments at that time. Not to mention, Lysithea wants to catch up on writing her lectures, so she doesn't have to do them so last minute during the week.

Hilda never complains, or even seems to mind. She accepts every reason -- even the most screwball excuses Lysithea can think of on the spot -- with a laugh and the promise to catch up some other time. 

Eventually, Lysithea knows she will just have to grit her teeth and talk, but for now it's much easier to avoid having any sort of serious conversation. The very idea makes her feel sick. It's a new sensation; nothing about Hilda has ever made her feel ill before. And yet somehow it's better than the possibility that the moment Lysithea admits any sort of deeper feeling, Hilda would laugh, or scoff, or be scornful, or worse. 

At least she has Hilda now. She's far too selfish to risk giving that up.

* * *

'CAITIFF.' Hilda points to the clue for three down, and Lysithea writes it into the little boxes on the newspaper. 

It is the morning of Tuesday of the next week, the week Edelgard arrives, and Lysithea still hasn't said anything. She takes a drink of her coffee, handing the pen over to Hilda so she can write the next few clues. 

"What's another word for a ‘golden coated horse’?," Hilda asks. 

Lysithea hums, and lowers her takeaway cup. “PALOMINO.”

"Oh. _ Duh,” _Hilda mutters at herself. 

As Hilda is scrawling in the answer on the crossword puzzle, Lysithea studies the side of her face as discreetly as she can. She has seen Hilda wear some outrageous makeup before, but only on nights where they were going out to Claude’s or elsewhere. Today she is most definitely wearing something more subtle.

She is quietly observing how long Hilda’s eyelashes are, when Hilda asks without looking up from the newspaper, “You know, I haven’t seen any big boxes come in the mail for you lately. Did you tell her the keys to the Maserati were too much?”

Lysithea frowns. “Edelgard has never given me the keys to a sports car before.”

“She hasn’t? Well, that’s just outrageous, isn’t it?”

“If you must know, she hasn’t sent anything this month because -” Lysithea focuses on the crossword puzzle and tries to sound nonchalant, which is something she has never been good at, right up there with being charming. “- well, because she’s coming to visit this weekend.”

“Oh-hoho! A visit from Her Majesty herself! Are they rolling out, like, a red carpet at Town Hall?”

“No,” Lysithea says, then adds. “Though they might do that at her company’s building.”

Hilda stares. “Oh my god, I was joking.”

“‘BAMBOOZLE’,” Lysithea takes the pen and writes in the answer to four down. “She’s only here for the weekend, but she’s invited you to join us for lunch.”

"A chance to meet mystery millionaire? In the flesh? Count me in." 

When Hilda takes the pen back, their fingers graze. For the remainder of the time before Hilda has to leave for class, Lysithea only manages to get another two or three clues, because she’s thinking about the calloused warmth of Hilda’s hands instead.

* * *

Edelgard's company's building is not the tallest skyscraper in the CBD, but it is the second tallest. Plus Lysithea knows from experience that it has the best views. Right now however, she and Hilda are standing on the street below it. Hilda is craning her neck back to look up its sleek glass facade. Every facet of it reflects the blue sky and surrounding buildings with astonishing clarity.

"Jesus," Hilda mutters under her breath, lowering her sunglasses to get a better look. "This is the building? Are you sure?"

"I'm pretty sure," Lysithea says dryly.

"So, hang on," Hilda puts her sunglasses back on, and looks at Lysithea standing beside her. "I've been calling her 'mystery millionaire' this entire time, but like that seems a bit -- I dunno -- _ light _ in the cash department, if you know what I mean."

"Edelgard doesn't really like to talk about money."

"Oh, fucking Christ. It's worse than I thought." Hilda sighs down at her own clothes, which are as rakishly stylish as ever. "I should've worn something more business-y. I can just feel it."

"You look great. You always look do," Lysithea assures her. The words tumble out before she can think to stop them. 

Hilda lifts one of her shoulders in a coquettish shrug. "I know. And don't think I haven't noticed the fact that you're actually wearing one of the designer outfits you got sent in your monthly care packages." Hilda reaches out to adjust one of Lysithea's sleeves, even though the cloth does not require it. 

Lysithea can feel the brush of skin against her upper arm. She has to clear her throat before she trusts herself to speak. "We should probably go inside."

"Yeah, yeah. You hate being late. I know." 

Together they walk through the automatic glass doors and into the foyer of gleaming white marble draped with crimson banners between every pillar like some sort of triumphal scene from antiquity. There is a row of bronze keycard stations blocking off entrance to even the elevators from the common rabble that might have dared to walk in off the streets. 

A line of security personnel and front-desk workers are arranged on either wall flanking the entryway. Lysithea knows the drill. She does not hesitate to approach one of the front-desk staff, and in exchange for their names receives two visitors passes that are stamped with the company logo: a rampant red and black eagle that looks like it has been adapted from heraldry for a more modern audience. 

As they swipe their keycards at the security gates, a green light flashes and the bronze arms lower at each station to let them pass. While waiting for the elevator, Lysithea pockets her own keycard, but Hilda stares at her own in utter bewilderment.

"Alright, now I'm just imagining that your friend dresses in, like, some eighties businesswomen's power suit. You know. Tall. Stilettos sharp enough to kill a man. Shoulder-pads stuffed so broadly they could support the weight of all my failed dreams. That kind of thing."

The elevator doors slide soundlessly open, and Lysithea steps inside. “Relax,” she says. “She is really nice once you get to know her.”

Lysithea retrieves her keycard once more to wave it in front of a sensor; it allows her to hit the button for the top floor penthouse suite.

Hilda stares at the illuminated floor level button. “Right. Yeah. I’m super relaxed. Cool. Cool cool cool.”

The elevator doors start to close. When the carriage beneath their feet smoothly begins the ascent, Hilda begins to fidget. She has forgone her usual numerous rings, and instead only wears two on each hand. The metal clicks against the golden chain strap of her handbag over one shoulder as she toys with the links. Behind her semi-opaque pink-tinged sunglasses, her eyes are fixed on the floor counter, which ticks rapidly upwards with every moment spent in the elevator. 

Lysithea hesitates for a moment, then gathers up enough courage to gently close her hand around Hilda's fingers. It stops her rapid fiddling. She doesn't say anything, but Hilda releases a tense breath. When they reach the top floor, Lysithea pulls her hand away, but not before Hilda can run her thumb against Lysithea's fingertips. 

The elevator doors open. The penthouse revealed beyond is a broad open space. Its high ceilings seem to extend beyond the heavens and take their place among the clouds. It's floor to ceiling glass, and polished marble, and brushed steel, accented only with the rarest streak of colour. 

It is a far more sterile space than Lysithea normally prefers; it reminds her too much of years spent in hospitals, despite being nothing at all like hospitals. Having visited Edelgard's family home many a time however, she knows exactly why Edelgard's personal tastes run away from anything that felt too woodsy or antiquated. 

They each have their own ways of rejecting the past. For Lysithea it's warm cardigans and the pursuit of greater knowledge in the light of her family’s rampant anti-intellectualism. For Edelgard it's ninety seven stories of glass and long-harboured designs of familial vengeance. 

The moment the elevator doors open, Lysithea steps out into the foyer. There is nobody to greet them.

“What? No butlers?” Hilda whispers in an overly covert voice, poking her head from the elevator and peering around as though scanning for an ambush. “What about snipers? Quick: do you see a red laser dot on my forehead?”

“Oh, stop being such a coward,” Lysithea says, very much aware of her own hypocrisy.

“Says the one who jumps out of her skin when I so much as play the theme song of a horror movie!”

“I’m -! I’m not that bad!”

“I saw you get scared in a Halloween shop once.”

“That’s it. I’m leaving you here.” Lysithea starts to walk further into the penthouse. 

“Noooo! Wait! Wait wait _ wait!” _

Lysithea doesn’t stop. Behind her, she can hear the clack of Hilda’s designer boots. Hilda jogs up beside her so that they walk side by side. “How do you know where to go?”

“Edelgard always stays here when she visits.” 

When they turn a glass corner, they are faced with a long hallway and an ornate double door at the very end. By the door stands a man dressed all in dour black. He looms as they approach, his gaunt face somehow always cast in shadow despite the well lit room. 

Lysithea waves. “Hi, Hubert.”

Hubert greets her with an incline of his head that seems more like a shallow bow than anything else. “Lysithea. I am glad to see you well.”

Hilda leans down to whisper in Lysithea’s ear. “Is _ this _the butler?”

“There are no butlers,” Lysithea says. She thinks for a moment, then adds. “Well, not here, anyway.”

In contrast, Hubert does not incline his head towards Hilda. He glowers, and he is very very good at glowering. As though he practices in the mirror every morning. “Hubert von Vestra. Head of Security, and personal attaché to the Managing Director and Chairman of the Board, Edelgard Hresvelg.” 

Hilda sticks out her hand to introduce herself. "Dr. Hilda Valentine Goneril. Two-time Commonwealth Champion, and Terror of Pub Trivia Night. Nice to meet you."

He lifts a contemptuous eyebrow at her her hand. He does not take it. “I’m afraid I’m going to need to inspect your bag before you are allowed entry.” When Lysithea starts to shrug her bag from her shoulder, he says, “Oh, not you. Just her.”

“Wow.” Hilda says. _ “Thanks.” _

Still, Hilda hands over her purse. Hubert handles it delicately, as if aware of its fine label. He prods around inside and along the seams. At one point, he lifts a small gold and coral handled switchblade, and shoots Hilda an unimpressed glare. 

Hilda shrugs, completely unapologetic. “A girl’s got the right to peel fruit without getting gross rind under her nails.” 

In answer, Hubert tests the switchblade with an expert twirl of his fingers. He pockets it, and when Hilda makes a wordless whine of complaint, he informs her, “You may have it back upon your departure.” 

Grumbling under her breath, Hilda snatches her bag back from him and slings it over her shoulder. Hubert opens the door for them and ushers them inside. Lysithea grimaces apologetically at Hilda as they walk into the next room. 

There, sunlight blanches the room in pale tones through the broad windows. At the head of a long table, Edelgard sets down a tablet she had been reading, and rises to her feet. She is clad in a militant knee-length scarlet coat with a flair of sumptuous white lining. Somehow she can always make whatever she wears look army-issued, but in a stylish way. Like she had just stepped from a monochromatic 1940s picture and into full colour. 

“Ohh, you’re wearing the new McQueen,” Hilda sighs wistfully over Edelgard’s coat. “Ohhhhh, and it looks so good on you, too.” 

The corner of Edelgard’s mouth curls in amusement, but all she says is a cool, “Thank you. It's nice to finally meet you, Hilda.” 

When Edelgard turns her attention to Lysithea, her face relaxes into a genuine smile. She walks forward to give Lysithea a hug, and murmurs, “You’re right on time.”

“I hope we’re not interrupting your work too much,” Lysithea says, nodding towards the tablet. 

“Oh, that.” Edelgard gives the device a dismissive wave. “Board papers. I’m halfway through the latest financial results, and already bored out of my mind. You saved me. And now I must reward you with tea.”

They move to take their seats, Lysithea at Edelgard’s right hand and Hilda sitting across from them, but Hilda hesitates. She stoops, half-seated, and asks, “Just tea? I thought -? Are we going out for lunch after, or, like -?”

“High tea,” Lysithea says. “There will be food. Snacks. Lots of them.”

“Ohh. Right. Okay.” 

Hilda sits. She fidgets with her purse in her lap for a moment, before dumping it in the seat beside her. The table is long and extends quite a ways beyond them, while they use only a small section of it. It could have easily seated twenty. 

Hubert does not take a seat, but instead hovers in a small patch of shadow cast by a pillar. Close enough that his presence is unquestionably part of the group, but far enough away to not partake.

Sighing, Edelgard glances over at him. “We’ve talked about this.”

“Did we? It must have slipped my mind.”

In answer, Edelgard only gives him a pointed look, then gestures towards one of the empty seats. He relents, and takes the seat directly beside Hilda. As he does so, Hilda not so discreetly clears her throat, and shuffles her own chair a little further away from him. 

“Don’t mind Hubert. He means well,” Edelgard tells Hilda. Her white-gloved hands are neatly clasped atop the table. “I really am glad you could make it. Lysithea’s descriptions pale in comparison to the real thing.”

Hilda hoists her eyebrows up, and she gives Lysithea an amused glance. “Well, then! Lysithea never told me you were such a charmer!”

“Because my charms are completely ineffective where she is concerned.” 

“Difficult to be charming when I’ve seen you covered in vomit,” Lysithea interrupts.

Edelgard makes a face, then explains to Hilda, “Treatment drugs. I cannot in good faith recommend them.”

“Oh, I dunno. I hear the side-effects of ‘living’ are kinda worth it,” Hilda quips. 

“Barely,” Edelgard drawls. She smiles, but her gaze is steady and sharp. “Now, I’d heard you had a range of interests and skills, but I never dreamed that someone would be able to convince Lysithea to actually wear the clothes I send her.”

Lysithea can feel her cheeks burning.

“What can I say?” Hilda runs a hand dramatically through her long hair. “I’m a woman of mystery.”

At that Hubert’s presence seems even more menacing than before. "There are no secrets you have that I do not know, Dr. Goneril. I personally prepared your background docket for the Chairman."

"Which I did not read," Edelgard assures Hilda, then adds. "Mostly."

_ “Oookay!” _ Hilda smiles broadly at them, then at Lysithea. “I am officially concerned now!”

Before Lysithea can do anything, a door opens. Two waitstaff emerge from another room, bearing china and triple-tiered trays of bite-sized food. 

As the cups and plates and trays are assembled on the table, Lysithea frowns reprimandingly at Edelgard. “I always try to look nice when visiting your company buildings. They would turn me away at the door otherwise.”

“I know that’s a lie, because I give them your photo with the express orders to admit you.” 

“Well -! It’s -!” Lysithea fumbles for a good counter. “It’s nice to not stick out from the decor sometimes.”

Edelgard’s expression slips into something very sly. “Yes, and I’m sure the makeup is all for my benefit as well.”

Lysithea hunches her shoulders and sinks down a little in her chair. “Alright. Let’s go back to picking on Hilda.”

_ “Hey!” _Hilda mimes throwing her cloth serviette at Lysithea across the table. 

A printed card with the day’s selection of tea is presented to each of them, with assurances that there are other flavours available should they require. Lysithea picks something sweet and apple-flavoured -- a loose leaf that Edelgard always makes sure is in stock when Lysithea visits -- and thanks the wait staff profusely. The gentleman murmurs, and takes the card away once more. 

The other waiter is bowed over Hilda’s shoulder, while she orders a rose blend and also asks, “And do you have any paper napkins I can use as projectiles? It’s really important.”

“Of course.” The waiter takes the card from her. 

“Thanks!”

Neither of the waiters approach Edelgard or Hubert, whose preferences are already so well known that they do not need to be asked. The wait staff disappear behind the door. Casual conversation with a tense undercurrent continues until they return, bearing round trays upon their shoulders, which hold large glass pots. 

The tea leaves steep visibly. There follows a show of pouring the tea, where the waiters fill their cups with each respective flavour from increasing heights, all while not spilling a single drop upon the pristine white tablecloth. Lysithea has already started on the selection of macaroons, unable to resist the temptation of sweets and savoury dishes artfully arrayed before them. 

When the wait staff are gone and the tea half-drunk, Hilda props her elbows indecorously on the table. In one hand she wields a miniature cake that has more layers than most full-sized pastries. A few paper napkins have been set on the table for her. “So, tell me: what’s your secret, Managing Director and Chairman of the Board?”

Lifting cup and saucer between her hands, Edelgard answers with her usual cool composure. “The role of Chairman is heritable due to a rather fortuitous and iron-clad clause in the shareholder’s agreement.”

“And the Managing Director part?” Hilda presses. She takes a bite of the little cake, and her eyes widen. “Oh, shit,” she mumbles around the mouthful. “This is _ really good.” _

Lysithea nods in agreement, and reaches for another of the little cakes, herself. Silently, Hubert turns the tray that they share so that more of the sweets are angled in her direction.

Edelgard takes her time to sip at her tea, placing the cup back in its saucer. “The role of Managing Director, I admit, I had to wrest for myself. Though I do not claim to handle anything below a strategic level of the business. I have a very competent CEO for that.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call Ferdinand _ ‘very competent’, _” Hubert interjects.

“He keeps up staff morale,” Edelgard says.

“And questions you at every turn.”

“Good. That’s why I pay him such a high salary.”

“Okay, enough with the bullshit. I have a very important question to ask you.” Hilda leans forward and fixes Edelgard with an intense stare. “Do you have childhood photos of Lysithea?”

“Absolutely.” Without hesitation, Edelgard pulls up the tablet that has been sitting at her elbow.

“Now, hang on just a minute -” Lysithea watches in horror as Hilda scoots her chair around so that she can look over Edelgard’s shoulder. 

It’s far too late. Soon, Hilda is making cooing noises and pinching the screen to zoom in on a photo Lysithea can’t see and doesn’t want to see, while Edelgard tells the story behind it. Meanwhile, Lysithea drinks her tea and attempts to staunchly ignore them with as much poise as she can muster. It isn’t nearly enough poise, though, for Hubert grimaces at her in his imitation of a smile, which he only does when he’s trying his very best to show support or be comforting. 

“Shall I call for some refills?” Hubert asks her, his voice as soft as he could make it.

“I’d like that,” Lysithea sighs. 

The other two don’t take any notice as their cups are filled with steaming tea once more. They continue to trawl through Edelgard’s apparently extensive collection of photographs, until Hilda shuffles her chair back over to her place. 

“God, she was a cute kid.” Hilda reaches for one of the savoury pastries. 

Lysithea sinks down a little in her chair. Her face feels aflame. 

Edelgard casts a sidelong glance in Lysithea’s direction. “I see someone hasn’t had a talk with you, yet.”

“What?” Hilda asks.

“So! How about those macaroons!” Lysithea says, a little too loudly. “Did you have one, Hubert? You should, or else they’ll all vanish.”

Indeed, the supply of food has steadily diminished as time goes on. He gamely plays along and plucks a macaroon from the tray. 

Rolling her eyes, Edelgard takes a prim sip of her tea, and murmurs, “Predictable.” 

Still, she allows the conversation to move along, and does not mention it again. They graze. Their cups are refilled. The sun slips towards the horizon, casting the table in warm golden light. Lysithea can’t help but stare as Hilda seems to be illuminated from behind. The flossy rays glint against her earrings, and she sparkles when she laughs. 

Eventually, Hilda scrapes her chair back and rises to her feet. “Alright. I’m going to let you two catch up in peace.” Everyone else had stood when she did. Hilda holds out her hand for Edelgard to shake, which Edelgard does. “Thanks for having me.”

Edelgard smiles, and it’s a genuine smile. It might have been too small a thing for Hilda to notice, but both Lysithea and Hubert exchange silent, incredulous looks. “You are welcome anytime.”

“Don’t say that, or I might just take you up on your offer of a private jet ride.”

“I never offered you a ride in my private jet.”

“No, but you could. Think about it.” 

At that, Edelgard actually lets out a huff of wry laughter. “Good bye, Hilda,” she says, very pointedly.

“Ohh, chilly!” Hilda pretends to shiver, but shoots Edelgard a parting wink before turning to Hubert. One hand on her hip, she holds out the other to him with an expectant look.

Her knife appears between his fingers, and he passes it over. “You might consider leaving it behind next time, Dr. Goneril.”

“Funny. I was going to say the same thing about the stick up your ass, but, you know -” She flutters her eyelashes at him. “We all have our little foibles.”

Hubert gives an amused little chuckle when she taps at his chin with the folded knife handle, but his dark eyes glitter dangerously. 

If Hilda is at all intimidated, she doesn’t show it. She rounds the table and leans down to swiftly press a kiss to Lysithea’s cheek in farewell. “See you tomorrow!”

Lysithea blinks. “Yeah,” she says, slightly dazed. The warmth and softness of Hilda’s cheek lingers against her skin. “See you.”

“Allow me to show you out.” Hubert does not give Hilda the option to refuse, and follows her through the doors.

A silence falls in their absence. Lysithea stares after the barest glimpse of Hilda’s clothes and hair until she and Hubert have disappeared around the corner. When she turns back around, Edelgard has sat back down and lifted her teacup to her lips.

“So?” Lysithea drops into her chair. She awaits Edelgard's final verdict with anticipation. 

Edelgard sips at the fragrant earl grey. “You could have done _ a lot _worse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm travelling overseas tomorrow for a few weeks. Will try to update, but I'm going to be running around like mad, so no promises.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware of the rating increase for this chapter. There is explicit sexual content (finally), which includes but is not limited to: oral, strap ons, stupid banter, and some slight overstimulation.

Almost a whole week passes before Lysithea is able to work up the courage to ask if she can stay over at Hilda's apartment again. She tries to manufacture some excuse as to why she should come over, but eventually gives up on any pretense.

When she finally does ask, the work week is nearly finished. A three day weekend is fast approaching, with the Monday a national holiday. Lysithea is standing in the doorway to Hilda's office, waiting to be taken out to lunch.

Hilda shuffles through a stack of student reports when she answers Lysithea's request. “Of course! You’re welcome over whenever. Just so long as you, like, text me you’re coming or whatever."

“So you can pretend to clean up for guests?” Lysithea replies in a dry tone. Her arms are crossed.

“So I can piss you off by making it even messier.” 

“I knew it.”

Hilda crouches down to start rifling through more stacks of reports on the ground. “Yes. All part of my cunning plan. I have an image to uphold, you know."

"Is that why you do it? For your carefully manicured image of laziness? Not because you actually like the mess?" To drive her point home, Lysithea gestures at the entirety of Hilda's office, which is mostly hidden by stacks of papers and books.

Hilda gestures with a paperback before tossing it back to the floor. "I refuse to incriminate myself. In fact, this line of questioning is borderline entrapment."

Lysithea rolls her eyes. "Oh, hurry up and come grab lunch with me already."

"I'm trying! My TA put the damn marks somewhere different this time, and it's driving me crazy! I've told him a squillion times that they need to go -! Oh! Found them!!" Hilda rises to her feet, stuffing a few loose pages haphazardly into her bag. "Okay, we can go now!"

"Finally."

* * *

This time when Lysithea comes over she brings a gift. The bag of cider bottles bumps against her shins as she chews her lower lip outside Hilda's apartment. Behind her, night is falling, turning the sky a dusky purple. The brass 2-A plates on the door gleam in the last fading rays of sunlight on the horizon.

Steadying herself with a deep breath, Lysithea knocks.

Hilda answers the door wearing shorts and one of those tight-fitting black undershirts she prefers, the kind that strategically hangs off her shoulders. It gives the illusion that it might slip completely free without ever actually being in danger of doing so. Her hair is loose and long, hanging down her back.

"You don't have to knock when you've already texted me a million times saying you're coming over. Just come in," Hilda says, exasperated.

She waves Lysithea inside, barely looking at her, already striding back towards the kitchen.

"It was not a million times!" Lysithea calls after her.

Hilda's voice drifts from the other room. "Four times is basically a million times. I know you're polite and all, but it's just me we're talking about."

Lysithea toes off her shoes and closes the front door behind her, locking it and casting the chain as well. 

The smells of cooking waft from the kitchen. Lysithea wanders in that direction. Hilda is humming to the music playing from her tablet. Her back is turned, and she puts down a pair of tongs to perform some perfectly executed air drums. 

Lysithea lingers in the kitchen doorway. She takes a moment to admire the glimpse of bare skin, the flex of muscle along Hilda's back and broad shoulders. Her mouth goes dry. She swallows.

"What are you making?" Lysithea asks, placing the cider on one of the countertops.

"Baked chicken parmigiana. It'll be ready in forty." Hilda opens the oven door, and slides a full dish inside before slamming it shut once more. When she turns, her eyes alright upon the bottles. "Ooh! Are those for me?"

"No, they're for your cute neighbour and her cat."

"Well, I can't blame you there." 

Hilda begins rustling through the grocery bags to see what Lysithea has brought. When she leans over, Lysithea catches a glimpse of generous cleavage, and quickly averts her gaze. So far, all her carefully laid plans for being cool and composed about this whole evening have been wholly tossed out the window.

Turning to the drying rack piled high with clean dishes, Lysithea grabs a dish towel. She dries and puts away the various pans and cutlery that have accumulated there. It strikes her that she now fully understands Hilda's system, and doesn't need to ask once where anything goes.

"I'm not that hungry yet to be honest," Lysithea says while she goes up on her toes to try to put a cutting board away.

"That's fine. Just let me know when you are." Hilda twists the oven dial off. Then she crosses the kitchen. "Here. Let me get that."

Standing directly behind her, Hilda takes the cutting board and easily reaches up to tuck it beside the bamboo steamer. Hilda's arm brushes against her, and Lysithea has to clear her throat. It does nothing to stop the burning in her cheeks however.

Hilda does not linger there, as much as Lysithea might have wanted her to do so. Though she trails her hand across Lysithea's back as she moves away, opening up a nearby drawer and pulling out a bottle opener.

"You want one?" she asks, picking up one of the bottles of cider.

It's tempting, but Lysithea shakes her head. "I shouldn't. Just soda, please."

"You know where it lives." Hilda taps the floor cabinet with her bare foot. 

"What a gentleman." Lysithea grabs a glass for herself. She bends down, opens the cabinet in question, and pours a glass of sparkling lemonade.

"Your gentleman privileges were revoked when you started leaving spare clothes in my bedroom. Honestly, at this point I should probably just cut you a key."

"I wouldn't say no." Lysithea tries to keep her tone light and playful, but the implications of what she has said are not missed.

Hilda hesitates when she lifts the bottle of cider for a sip. Lately most of their conversations have felt like this. Like a dance around an inevitable topic neither of them are willing to address.

Then Hilda ruins it. "Great! On that basis, I'll start charging you rent, too."

Making a face, Lysithea lowers her own glass which she had been taking a sip from. "I am not going to pay two rents."

"I'm implying that you should just move in with me already. Duh."

"So I gathered." Lysithea can feel this conversation already treading dangerous waters, and she has barely walked through the door. She veers it towards safety. "Speaking of rent, you're still using my Netflix login. Does that contribute to my share?"

Hilda pretends to mull over the idea. "Only if I get to pick tonight's show."

"No horror," Lysithea says with a glare. "And no more drag races, either!"

"Why do you hate fun?"

"You know what? I'm picking the show this time." Lysithea starts towards the bedroom.

"Oh noooo," Hilda whines, trailing after her. "Not another nature documentary! Those narrators are always such a turn off!"

"I like learning new things."

"So do I. But I also like taking a break, and letting my braincells regenerate with some good old fashioned trashy television."

Crossing the bedroom, Lysithea sets her drink onto the bedside table and flops onto the mattress. It is so easy to fall back into these habits. It's most as though the last few weeks of staying away from Hilda's apartment never occurred. 

Hilda sits beside her, cider in one hand, tablet in the other, already flicking through a list of shows for them to choose from. The music has been paused. She hands the tablet over while tilting the bottle back for a sip. Lysithea takes the device, and scrolls for an acceptable alternative to the documentary she originally had in mind.

"What about this?" Lysithea holds up the tablet for Hilda's inspection.

"Too sad. I would be a blubbering mess twenty minutes in."

That seems fair. Though Lysithea does not point out that she has extra tissues in her bag for just that purpose. She had started bringing them after the first experience of Hilda becoming a sobbing wreck during an emotional chick flick. 

Lysithea keeps scrolling. "This?"

"Saw it last week. Was bored out of my mind, and abandoned it halfway through for a new jewellery project and a podcast about infectious diseases."

"You're so picky," Lysithea grumbles.

"Then pick something good for once."

Lysithea sticks out her tongue at her, then turns the screen around again. "Okay. How about this one?"

"Ohh, I've heard that one's good! But also thought-provoking. After the week I've had, my brain is not up for it." Hilda takes a last swig of her cider before setting it aside. "Turn around. I want to do your hair."

Setting the tablet aside, Lysithea gives up on the idea of finding a show for now. She turns without question. "What's wrong with my hair?"

Hilda touches her arm, and guides Lysithea back so that she's seated between Hilda's legs. "Nothing. I just want to try out a few different styles and see how they look on you."

"Hmm," Lysithea says in mild suspicion, but Hilda's fingers are running through her hair now, and she doesn't actually want her to stop. Hilda's hands are gentle and inquisitive, expertly parting her hair into sections.

"I can't believe this is your natural colour," Hilda says. "You know, when I first saw you, I thought you dyed it."

Lysithea snorts. "Like I would ever do that."

"Well, I mean, now I know better. _ Obviously." _

"Neither of my parents have this hair colour. They're blonde but not like -"

"Peroxide blonde?" Hilda supplies helpfully.

"I was going to say 'etiolated' but yeah. Sure."

"Outstanding crossword clue, but not a word I would ever use to describe you."

"Are you sure about that? You should never try taking me to the beach, then," Lysithea says dryly.

Hilda has begun to pleat Lysithea's hair. "Let me guess: you go full goth. All black. Big hat. Sunglasses. Parasol."

In admonishment, Lysithea tickles the sensitive underside of Hilda's knee. Hilda squeaks, and jerks her leg.

"Don't be an ass," Lysithea says.

"You really wanna start a tickle war? Huh, punk? When I have you trapped between my legs?"

"That would mean risking the integrity of the braid you're working on, which you would never do."

"You severely underestimate how competitive I am."

Immediately Lysithea stiffens. "No tickles."

_ "Wow. _Hypocrite much?" Hilda teases, but lets the topic drop. "Anyway. This summer we're going to the beach."

"What? Why?" Lysithea can't keep a slight whine from her voice. 

"Because I want to take you swimsuit shopping. And also I want to wreck some fools at beach volleyball."

Lysithea has exactly zero doubt that Hilda would do just that. "Do you realise just how sunburnt I get?"

"That's what sunscreen and beach umbrellas are for. Now, let's see how you look."

Tying off Lysithea's hair with a spare elastic band from the bedside table, Hilda reaches for her phone. She uses the forward facing camera as a mirror. With her chin resting upon Lysithea's shoulder, Hilda studies their reflections on the screen.

"Not sure if a braid is quite your style," Hilda muses. She picks apart the braid with one hand, running her fingers through the waves left behind in Lysithea's ghost-pale hair. "Maybe a bun?" She twists the hair up, and her mouth forms a contemplative moue in the mirror. "I'm thinking something classic and scholarly. But stylish, not dowdy. You know?"

"Yeah. Sure," Lysithea replies, but she is not paying any attention.

She isn't even looking at herself in the reflection. She is too focused on the way Hilda is tucking a stray flyaway behind her ear, and the way Hilda's face rests so comfortably beside her own, and the way Hilda's chest is pressed against her back.

In the reflection, Lysithea's staring does not go unnoticed. Their eyes meet in the mirrored phone screen. Hilda grins, mischievous. She presses a kiss to Lysithea's cheek, and Lysithea is so preoccupied by it that she does not register the camera shutter noise indicating that Hilda has just snapped a picture.

Leaning her chin back in the crook of Lysithea's shoulder, Hilda wraps her arms around her to play with the phone in both hands.

_ "Cute," _Hilda murmurs. She modifies the image slightly, and then sets it as her background.

Lysithea can feel Hilda's smile against her neck. The corner of Hilda's mouth is curled in one of her signature grins, the kind that she never can get enough of, no matter how much time they spend with one another.

"Hilda."

"Hmm?" Hilda tosses her phone aside, but remains where she is seated, wrapped up around her. She glances at Lysithea with a curious cant to her smile.

Before she can even comprehend what she's doing Lysithea turns her head and closes the distance between them. It is a chaste press of their mouths. Hilda freezes. The moment Lysithea realises what she has done, she pulls away. An apology is still on the tip of her tongue, when Hilda grabs her face and pulls her back down. 

Lysithea isn't quite sure how it happens, but the next thing she knows is that she has turned around in Hilda's lap and is being thoroughly kissed.

One of Hilda's hands has pressed against Lysithea's lower back to steady her, and is now slipping beneath the hem of her shirt to trace the waistband of her skirt with clever fingertips. It sends a shiver racing up Lysithea's spine. Of the many ways Hilda is lazy, this is not one of them. She kisses skillfully and cannily, leading Lysithea along until Lysithea clutches at her shoulders.

Lysithea's knees dig into the mattress as she kneels over her, straddling one of Hilda's legs. When Hilda bends her knee so that Lysithea is seated upon her thigh, a coil of heat spools low. A noise rises, unbidden, in Lysithea's throat and is trapped between their mouths.

Hilda pulls away just enough to ask, "Is this alright? Can I -?"

"Yeah," Lysithea breathes, already tilting Hilda's head back for another kiss. _ "God, _yeah."

Hilda's hands grasp at her waist, urging Lysithea to rock against her. Lysithea's grip on Hilda's shoulders tightens. When a whimper escapes her, the world pitches sideways as Hilda tumbles her over so that she is pressed back against the warm-scented sheets with Hilda crouched over her on all fours.

This time when Hilda reinitiates a kiss, it is urgent. Hilda lies flush against her, and rocks until Lysithea is gasping. She grasps at the back of Hilda's shirt, the fabric bunching between her fists. It does nothing to ground her; she can feel the pool of heat spreading in her stomach with every roll of Hilda's hips.

"Ha-Hang on. Just -" Lysithea pushes weakly at Hilda's shoulders, and Hilda immediately pulls back. Lysithea stares up at her, as if unsure that this is even real. "Are we -? Are we really doing this?"

"Do you mean in, like, a metaphysical sense?" Hilda asks, slightly breathless. "Or just in a _ 'oh my god are we finally gonna bone' _ sense?"

"The latter, of course." Though in truth, Lysithea thinks it's a little of column A and a little of column B.

"Okay. Good. In that case: only if you want to. Because I want to. Like _ a lot. _But if you don't want to, then -"

"I want to," Lysithea blurts out before Hilda can even finish.

Tugging at the hem of Lysithea's shirt, Hilda says, "Great. Glad we've established that. Now, can we get this off? I've been dying to have you naked and under me for, like, months to be honest."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"What? And risk scaring you off?" Hilda snorts. "No way! Besides, who doesn't like a little anticipation, am I right?"

Lysithea makes a face, but helps Hilda get her top off. "No, thank you." Her voice is briefly muffled by cotton until the shirt is tossed carelessly onto the floor. "I much prefer to just get to the point."

In a single smooth motion, Hilda lowers herself down on her elbows once more so that their bodies are pressed together from chest to calf. Lysithea shivers when Hilda runs one of her hands lightly from her shoulder and stopping at her hip to toy with the waistband of her skirt. Slowly, she nudges Lysithea's head to one side so she can ghost her mouth against Lysithea's neck. 

"Don't worry," Hilda breathes against her throat, "We'll work that bad habit right out of you."

Hilda shifts. Even through a layer of black fabric Lysithea can feel the flex of muscle in Hilda's abdomen as she presses a thigh between Lysithea's legs and drags it slowly upwards. Lysithea has to clench her teeth to keep herself from making a noise. Hilda repeats the motion, long and slow, so that she can hear the first faint creak of the mattress, and the entire bed rocks slightly.

Throughout it all Hilda is still lavishing Lysithea's bare neck and shoulders with attention. She has to pause to push aside some of Lysithea's long pale hair.

"Should've left it in the braid," she says, laughing softly against Lysithea's throat.

Lysithea takes the opportunity to tug at Hilda's shirt. "Can you take this off?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Hilda pushes herself to her knees, and divests herself of both shirt and bra, casting them to the floor alongside the last scraps of Lysithea's dignity. Lysithea sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth, and stares.

"You okay there, tiger? You're not going to faint on me or anything, right?"

Lysithea opens her mouth to respond, but no sound comes out, so she shakes her head instead.

For a moment, Hilda's brows furrow. "Wait. You've done this before, haven't you? I mean it's totally fine if you haven't, but, like -"

"Once," Lysithea admits.

It had been in the last year of her undergraduate studies. She hadn't enjoyed it too much, but she hadn't hated it either. She'd been indifferent to the classmate who had asked her during one of their final study sessions. Honestly, she had been surprised at herself for replying that yes she would go back to his dorm for the evening. He didn't speak to her again after graduation, and that had suited her just fine.

"Though I know what I like to do to myself," Lysithea adds.

"Okay. Cool." Hilda has reached over for the elastic hairband, and is tying her own hair back into a single ponytail. "Just tell me if you want me to do anything different or whatever. I'm always open to requests, and feedback, and stuff."

"I'm fine with anything," Lysithea says, leaning up on her elbows to remove her own bra and fling it aside.

Hilda's answering grin glints wickedly. Her voice lowers to a note that makes Lysithea's breath catch in her chest. "You say that, but we'll take it nice and slow."

"As opposed to what?" Lysithea asks, but Hilda has placed a hand on her chest and is pushing her gently back down.

"As opposed to me strapping up and fucking you 'til you can't walk straight for the next few hours. Now, lie back. I want to go down on you."

Lysithea lies back. Her heart thuds in her chest. She feels dizzy and they have hardly done anything yet.

Hilda takes her dear sweet time working her way towards her final destination. She is languid but thorough. She teases Lysithea's breasts with mouth and teeth. She kisses her way slowly down to Lysithea's navel until Lysithea is squirming beneath her. Her hand inches up Lysithea's skirt to run a finger beneath the elastic band of her underwear before sliding the fabric down her legs. When Lysithea reaches for the zipper of her herringbone skirt however, Hilda nudges her hand aside.

"No, no. Leave it on. Just for now."

"Why?"

"Because the hot librarian look on you really does things for me."

"And here I thought you wanted a hot goth."

"Listen. There's only enough room for one hot goth in this family, and you're looking at her."

Lysithea gasps on a laugh, when Hilda begins to kiss up along her inner thigh. "How are you goth? Your favourite colour is pink."

"Excuse you. Pink _ is _goth!" Hilda insists, but it is impossible to take her seriously when her head has been reduced to a bump beneath Lysithea's skirt.

"Is your strap on pink, too?"

"Why? You want to find out?"

_ "Yes." _

She can feel Hilda snicker against her leg. And then Hilda places an open-mouthed kiss to her clit, and all thought of banter goes sailing out of Lysithea's head.

Her lower back arches, pushing her further against Hilda's mouth, but Hilda's hands hold her firmly in place. The slow, deliberate pace drives Lysithea half mad. Hilda rushes through nothing. Every time Lysithea's breathing starts to grow irregular and she clutches at the bedsheets like a lifeline, Hilda moves her attention somewhere else.

Lysithea loses track of time. She gasps towards the ceiling, her eyes squeezed shut. Dimly she is aware that not much time could have passed in the grand scheme of things, but it feels like she's taught classes shorter than this.

"I swear to god, Hilda, if you don't hurry up, I'll -"

At that, Hilda pauses entirely. "You'll what?" she asks, her voice muffled.

Thighs trembling, Lysithea doesn't answer.

Hilda pushes Lysithea's skirt up so that her flushed face comes into view. Her mouth and chin are slick, but she doesn't seem to care. "No, go on. I'm _ super _curious to hear about what you'll do to me."

Lysithea's cheeks are already red. She glowers, but the effect is ruined by the way her legs are splayed open, and her breathing is ragged. "I'm - I'm really not good at dirty talk, if that's what you're aiming for."

Hilda shrugs, smiling. "Like I said. Nice and slow."

"You also said something about requests?" Lysithea asks. She waits for Hilda's nod before saying, "I don't like being treated like I'm made of glass, and I don't want nice and slow."

For a moment, Hilda just stares at her with wide eyes. Then she wipes her face clean with both hands. "Am I dreaming?" She lightly smacks her own cheeks. "Is this a dream?"

_ "Hilda." _

"Right! Okay. Yeah. I'm on it. Just give me a sec."

For someone who had seemed to enjoy making Lysithea wait, it takes an impressively short amount of time for Hilda to kick off her shorts, and step into a harness. Though she has to rummage around beneath the bed for a plastic storage box beforehand. 

Hilda is seated on the edge of the bed with a bottle of lube in her hands, and Lysithea sits up to run a hand across her back. She kisses Hilda's shoulder and relishes the reaction that invokes.

"You know," Hilda says, "this is really not how I expected this night to go. Not that I'm complaining or anything. Because I'm really not, let me tell you."

"I see that my suspicions are confirmed, and all you're good at is talking."

Hilda blinks at her in surprise, then laughs. She turns, pushing Lysithea back onto the mattress so that Lysithea lies beneath her. 

"Haven't you figured it out yet?" Hilda grins down at her. "I am great at multitasking." 

Hilda is lying between her legs, and Lysithea can't think of a witty retort. She's still incredibly wet from when Hilda had started using her mouth, but regardless Hilda has taken every precaution, and the toy is slick with lubricant. It is also predictably, violently pink.

Lysithea angles her head back, when Hilda kisses the line of her jaw. Her skirt bunches up around her waist. She bites her lower lip but can't keep a whimper at bay as Hilda eases the tip of the toy inside of her. Her knees splay open to accommodate the stretch, and one of Hilda's hands glides up her thigh to grip her by the waist and hold her steady. 

A dull thrill of pleasure winds up Lysithea's spine as Hilda takes the time to work the shaft fully into her. By the time their hips are brought flush together, Lysithea is panting towards the ceiling, her breaths coming in short sharp bursts. She can feel Hilda's mouth at her neck, the gentle rasp of teeth at her throat. 

Then Hilda pulls back. She draws the toy almost completely free, and sinks it fully in place once more in a single slow thrust. The second time the motion is repeated, Lysithea angles her hips up to receive it. The joint movement sets the toy more firmly inside her, and draws a sound from her lips.

The noise seems to spur Hilda on, for the next thrust bears a bit more weight. She uses one forearm to hold herself up, and her other hand grips Lysithea's waist tight, urging her along, encouraging a more exaggerated roll of her hips. It isn't until a steadier pace has been set that Hilda pushes off of her forearm to kneel between Lysithea's legs.

Shifting somewhat, Hilda guides Lysithea's knees to the angle she wants, and murmurs, "Relax. Let me do the work."

Relaxing is the absolute last thing on Lysithea's mind. Lying back like this, she can't reach Hilda's shoulders, so instead she grabs at the bedsheets for purchase. Hilda drives her hips forward, and a sharp cry is wrenched from Lysithea's throat. 

"You alright?" Hilda asks even as she thrusts again at the same pace.

"Y-Yes."

The single syllable ends on a breathless noise. Hilda drives the toy to its base again and again in a hard, steady, unrelenting rhythm. A jolt rushes headlong through Lysithea with every thrust. The mattress creaks in time with their movements, and the bed's base knocks against the wall. At any other time she would have been relieved that the bed is situated against the wall facing the living room and not a neighbour's apartment, but she can't bring herself to care now.

Lysithea doesn't know how Hilda is able to maintain the pace, let alone increase it. At one point, Hilda has to pause to readjust, almost effortlessly lifting Lysithea's hips so that she can brace herself and continue with short rapid thrusts. With a hard quick rhythm, it doesn't take long for Lysithea's breath to start hitching every time the curved end of the toy is lodged deep inside her. She comes with a sharp cry, hands grasping at Hilda's lower back when there's no sign that she will relent and slow down.

Eventually, Hilda does slow and instead grinds their hips together, her hand wandering downwards until her thumb is stroking softly against Lysithea's clit. She continues until Lysithea is shuddering and seeing stars again. Fingernails digging into Hilda's lower back, Lysithea can't stop her hips from bucking when Hilda maintains that constant pressure all while keeping the touch of her thumb feather-light.

When a broken note cracks at the back of Lysithea's throat, Hilda stops. 

"Sorry," Hilda breathes. "Too much?"

Lysithea nods faintly, and her voice is strained when she says, "A little. But keep going."

For a moment, Hilda does nothing. She watches Lysithea with an intense and unblinking expression. Her forearms tremble slightly, and Lysithea can feel a light prickling of sweat that has gathered along the divot of Hilda's spine. A few strands of pink hair have escaped from Hilda's ponytail, and stick to her temples.

Then she starts moving again, and Lysithea hisses through clenched teeth. She squeezes her eyes shut. Hilda resumes a staccato rhythm of shallow thrusts, but her thumb circles slowly, out of time and gentle in comparison. Lysithea's lower back is set back down on the mattress, and the sudden shift in angle makes her grind her hips upwards to seek more friction against Hilda's fingers. With her free hand, Hilda holds her down by the waist, carefully controlling the balance between the hard press of the toy and the soft caress of her thumb. 

Whenever she touched herself alone, Lysithea has always stopped after finishing. This is new. This wavers on the bleeding edge of beyond the pale. She feels trapped in a fugue state where every single one of Hilda's motions seems too much to bear and not enough simultaneously. As if from a distance Lysithea hears the feeble, plaintive whines that escape her own throat.

Hilda only slows to a halt when Lysithea's heels begin to slip and flounder against the bedsheets. Lysithea can still feel small aftershocks racing through her, clenching at the toy until Hilda pulls out of her. Lysithea is barely aware of the sticky silicone bulge against her already slick inner thigh.

Hilda sounds winded when she speaks, "Alright, I would really appreciate if you'd just, like, do literally anything to me, because I am _ unbelievably _ turned on right now."

With trembling hands, Lysithea tugs at the harness to loosen it. Hilda helps, their hands fumbling as Lysithea leans up to kiss her. After the harness has finally been kicked to the foot of the bed, Lysithea manages to get Hilda on her back. Her arms and knees can barely keep herself up, and Lysithea has to drop down to her elbows.

Whereas before Hilda's movements were precise and controlled, now they are sloppy and desperate. She is already making high-pitched impatient noises, as Lysithea leans down to mouth at her breasts.

It takes Lysithea a moment to realise that only one of Hilda's hands is clutching her shoulder. The other is already between her own legs. A glance down confirms that Hilda has buried three fingers up to the knuckle inside herself, and is frantically seeking release.

"Now who's impatient," Lysithea mumbles around Hilda's nipple.

"I don't think you understand how close I am," Hilda gasps. "Please, just -"

Lysithea reaches down. Rather than push Hilda's wrist aside, she manoeuvres her hand in such a way that her fingers can slip against Hilda's clit at the same time. 

Immediately, Hilda cries out. Her free hand tangles in Lysithea's hair and holds her in head in place. Even so, Lysithea is nearly dislodged by the shuddering jump of Hilda's hips every time Lysithea's fingers circle her clit. 

Hilda is noisy. She writhes when she comes, gripping the back of Lysithea's head tight, and chanting the first broken syllable of Lysithea's name until her cries dissolve into utter incoherence. Shivers continue to roll through her, slowing in time with both their fingers. 

When Hilda's muscles begin to relax, and she pulls her fingers out of herself, Lysithea follows suit. Rolling onto her side, the two of them lie on their backs, and the only sounds in the room are their harsh breathing. Lysithea can feel Hilda's arm pressed up against her own. Gracelessly, Hilda wipes her own fingers off on the sheets, but otherwise does not move.

Lysithea dares to break the silence. "Are you normally so quick to get off?"

Hilda lets out a huff of breathless laughter. "Not really, no. But fucking you was hot. Like, _ really _ hot. And this thing -" Hilda weakly hooks her foot into the harness' straps, and lifts it a little from the bed. The pink dildo dangles comically from the ring that holds it in position. "- was rubbing me the whole time. I almost came, like, twice when I was getting you off. Why? We're you not impressed by my godlike stamina?"

Lysithea rolls her eyes, but Hilda is grinning at her with that old familiar roguishness, but for the fact that her hair is darkened with sweat, and she is both very naked and sated. Like a proverbial cat, though Lysithea herself has never felt less like a canary.

"I would be lying if I said no," Lysithea concedes. 

In response, Hilda brushes the backs of her fingers against Lysithea's leg. Then she sits bolt upright. "The oven!" she says with wide eyes, until she places a hand over her chest, and heaves a sigh of relief. "Oh, wait. I turned it off. Thank god."

"It hasn't been forty minutes anyway," Lysithea adds.

"Are you sure about that?" 

Hilda leans over her and taps her phone on the bedside table just to wake up the lock screen display. She tilts the screen towards Lysithea so she can see.

Turning her head aside on the mattress, Lysithea's stares in incredulity. "An _ hour and a half?" _

"Yeah. That chicken parmigiana would've been charcoal." Hilda bounces a bit further down the bed, picking up the strap on and giving it a preliminary wipe down on the sheets as well.

Lysithea sits up, and swings her legs over the side of the bed. The moment she does so, her skirt falls around her knees. She can feel the area of fabric that has been soaked through. With a grimace, Lysithea unzips her skirt and slides it down her legs.

"We may not have ruined dinner, but we have ruined my favourite skirt," she laments. Then looks at the bed. "And your sheets."

"I'll wash them." Hilda holds out her hand, and Lysithea passes the skirt over to her.

"Thanks. Though it is your fault, to be fair."

"That's a compliment, thank you very much. Totally worth it. Eleven out of ten." Hilda checks the skirt's tag to see if there are any special washing requirements. She grins over the skirt at her. "Wanna mess up some more clothes?"

"I am going to need a few hours to recover," Lysithea says. "And a bath."

"Can I join you?" 

Hilda has begun to strip the pillows of their casings, chucking the fabric along with her skirt over towards the bathroom door. Gripping the edge of the bed, Lysithea studies in fascination how relaxed Hilda is. About everything. Meanwhile just sitting here leaves Lysithea reeling, like she's in some alternative dimension.

They have just had sex -- really quite fantastic sex, if Lysithea is being honest with herself -- yet they still haven't spoken about anything in any material sense.

"I really like you," Lysithea blurts out before her courage fails her.

Hilda snorts in amusement, tugging the bedsheet free from the two corners of the mattress nearest her. "Well, that's good. Otherwise this would be kind of awkward. Can you get up real quick?"

Lysithea gapes at her. "Wait. That's it?"

"What do you mean: _ 'that's it?'" _

"What do you mean: _ 'what do I mean?'" _ Realising that this is starting to border on the ridiculous, Lysithea lets go of the sheets she has bunched in her hands. "I just - I just was hoping for something a bit more -- I don't know -- concrete."

Hilda eyebrows have risen towards her hairline. "Concrete."

"Are you just going to repeat everything I say? Because if so, then -"

Hilda interrupts before Lysithea can finish that sentence. "I think you need to see an optometrist, because I am pretty sure I've been dropping hints that I've been super into you and wanted to date you for at least, like, three months now -- maybe more -- and I am not someone known for my subtlety." 

A slow flush mottles Lysithea's pale cheeks a ruddy hue. "Oh."

"So, anyway, is that a yes on the bath? Because otherwise I can just take a shower after you're done."

"That's a yes to the bath." Lysithea staunchly refuses to feel embarrassed by how easily this conversation has occured after worrying about it for weeks and weeks. 

"Great." Hilda leans over to drop a brief kiss to Lysithea's temple. "Now, I'm going to throw all of these sheets in the washing machine, chuck this -" she brandishes the bright pink dildo like a battle axe, "- in the dishwasher, and then make sure we get to actually eat something tonight. But first, I'm going to need you to get up."

She tugs at the bedsheet under Lysithea for emphasis.

Lysithea sighs. "Alright. I'll go run the bath." 

She tries to stand, but her legs wobble and she has to sit immediately back down or else risk collapsing to the floor. Delicately clearing her throat, she stretches her legs out, and can't suppress a slight wince at the twinge in her knees and thighs. 

"Nevermind," Lysithea says primly. She does not meet Hilda's gaze. "I'll go run the bath in a moment."

Hilda laughs.

* * *

They don't leave the apartment for almost two days. By the time Sunday evening rolls around, Lysithea feels more well rested than she's been since starting the PhD program three years ago. She is also significantly more relaxed. It is a joint effort, a combination of copious amounts of both sleep and sex.

Eventually however, Hilda is champing at the bit to get out of the house even for a little while. She drags Lysithea down the road for walkies, and to grab some cheap takeaway for dinner. Neither of them could be bothered to put on real clothes. Lysithea is swimming in a borrowed pair of black sweatpants and a white hoodie with a gold crown threaded across the back. 

Hilda holds her hand. She laces their fingers together, and swings their arms in a broad arc, chatting all the while. Lysithea allows it, but feels a bit silly. She casts a glance around and tightens her grip whenever someone passes them, but nobody seems to care, least of all Hilda.

If the past few days have taught Lysithea anything, it's that Hilda has very little concept of shame. She acknowledges its existence, but disregards it utterly. More than once, Lysithea had to scurry around the apartment and draw the curtains, while Hilda strode about wearing not a stitch of clothing. 

Not that Lysithea would ever berate Hilda into putting on clothes when they are alone. She rather likes the view.

At the restaurant, their order, which Lysithea had called in back at the apartment, is already sitting on the counter in plastic bags, waiting. A weary-looking cashier with a five o'clock shadow - one that has extended to well beyond eight o'clock - rings them up on a battered register. 

Hilda swaps cash for the plastic bags. After she's scooped up the change, she heads towards the exit. "Let's hurry back. I want you to ride my face."

Lysithea almost trips. Her face burns, and she looks over her shoulder to find the bored cashier completely ignoring them. She hurries through the door after Hilda, who is waiting for her on the street just outside. This time however, Lysithea is the one to reach for Hilda's hand. She receives a playful stroke against the sensitive skin of her wrist in return. It sends a shiver of anticipation racing up her arm.

By the time they actually get around to eating at the apartment, the food is cold and Lysithea's knees are sore. They stand in the kitchen, leaning against the counters, and eat directly out of the cartons. Lysithea is wearing nothing but one of Hilda's oversized shirts, and Hilda is wearing nothing but an impressive smattering of bruises at her neck and shoulder. Lysithea admires them while she twirls her fork through cold takeaway.

"So," Hilda waggles her eyebrows as she puts aside her carton of food. "I take it that you're still really great at being available for dating?"

Lysithea shrugs. "Depends on who's asking. I'm very picky, you know."

Hilda bumps their shoulders together. "C'mon and date me already. Officially, anyway. Since we've basically been dating for, like, months now, except without all the great sexy times I could have been providing."

Lysithea tries to hide a smile by taking an extra large bite of food. She isn't very successful. "Oh, fine."

_ "Oh, fine," _Hilda mimics. "Like you aren't dying to be my super cute and awesome girlfriend."

"Well, when you put it like that -" 

"- How can you resist?" Hilda kisses her cheek. "Trick question. You can't."

Rolling her eyes, Lysithea allows the fork and carton to be taken from her hands and placed aside. She accepts another kiss, when Hilda drapes her arms around her neck. 

"I was eating that," Lysithea says.

"You can eat me instead."

"I already did."

"Well, apparently you're still hungry."

"You're insufferable," she mumbles against Hilda's mouth.

"You love it."

Lysithea does. She kisses Hilda rather than say it aloud.

  



	7. Chapter 7

Spring has officially arrived. The mornings still coat the pavement in frost, but it is quick to melt. Usually Lysithea would need to pick her way with care across the slick sidewalk on her way to the train station. It is easier when walking with Hilda, who somehow never loses her footing despite the fact that she wears nothing but the most outrageous heels. 

Lysithea will never understand why Hilda bothers with heels, anyway. It’s not like she needs the extra height. 

Most importantly, it is now warm enough that Hilda has insisted on getting everything she drinks in iced format. She cannot abide weather that is too hot or too cold, and so she pretends that it is neither one way nor the other by ordering food and beverages that do not suit. While Hilda starts ordering iced coffees with vibrantly coloured straws, Lysithea sticks to her mochas with extra marshmallows. 

What surprises Lysithea most about the last month is how little has actually changed. Somehow she had expected a romantic relationship to involve far more change, but her routine has remained relatively intact. Indeed, Hilda has managed to incorporate herself as seamlessly into Lysithea's life as she had when they first started hanging out. 

Perhaps that’s just Hilda. Perhaps other people would have required more effort. But Hilda is easy to love. 

Hilda lets Lysithea hold onto the crook of her arm as they walk to work. Lysithea feels her feet slip beneath her, and has to grip Hilda's arm tighter. Her free hand holds her usual coffee. She is lucky to not lose a marshmallow from the lid by the time they make it inside the University building. It is a relief to finally ride the elevator up to the seventh floor. 

"As much as I hate summer, I can't wait for spring to finally be over," Lysithea grumps as they step out of the elevator. 

"So I can finally take you swimsuit shopping?" Hilda asks.

Lysithea glares as she bends down to pick up the newspaper from the floor. "No."

"No to the reason? Or no to swimsuit shopping entirely?"

Pursing her lips, Lysithea says, "Only if I get veto rights. I don't want you to dress me in some horrible bikini."

"How could you be dating me for nearly six months, and still think so poorly of my tastes?"

"We've only been dating for one month."

"Not true. I'm counting all those other months before we boned as dating, because we were literally dating. Just without sex."

Lysithea stops outside her office door. "I see the delivery boy came early this morning."

One of Edelgard's care packages is waiting outside her office. It's large enough that it reaches almost to her knees, and she wouldn't be able to wrap her arms around it if she tried. 

"Could you, please -?" 

Hilda is already handing over her coffee. "I'm on it."

Lysithea quickly unlocks her office door and opens it before taking the iced coffee from Hilda. "Thank you."

"Brawn is one of the many many benefits I can provide you."

"I already said _ 'thank you.'" _

"Yeah, and I will also accept a kiss as payment." 

With ease, Hilda picks up the heavy package. She carts it inside, and sets it down gently on a cleared corner of Lysithea's desk. Then she turns to Lysithea and leans down slightly, pointing at her own cheek and turning her face aside. 

Faking a much put upon sigh, Lysithea puts down her mocha and kisses Hilda’s cheek. As Hilda starts to straighten however, Lysithea puts a hand on the back of her neck and tugs her down for a proper kiss. It tastes of coffee and marshmallows.

“I should do favours for you more often,” Hilda says when she straightens with a grin. 

Lysithea hands back her coffee. “And here I thought you’d be the one trying to get me to do everything for you.”

“You’re still buying my coffee every morning, aren’t you?” Hilda waggles her iced coffee, and drops into the spare seat.

“Only because your rental prices are very competitive.” 

Opening up one of her desk drawers, Lysithea pulls out a pair of scissors. While she is cutting through the liberal amounts of tape sealing the package, Hilda starts on the crossword. She slurps at her iced coffee and fills in the first few easy clues. Lysithea sits and pulls the now open box towards both her and Hilda.

The first thing that catches her attention is that there are two letters at the top of the package, rather than the usual one. The first letter is what she has come to expect from Edelgard over the years. A brief handwritten note listing the box’s contents, and expressing her warmest affection. 

Lysithea opens up the second letter, and scans the first line.

_ 'Lysithea, if you are reading this, please stop and give the letter to Hilda.' _

Blinking in surprise, Lysithea stops reading. She holds the letter across the table. "It's for you."

With a curious hum around the straw, Hilda takes the letter. She sits back in her chair, her eyes moving rapidly across the page until she's finished. Lysithea studies the next crossword clue and pretends to not be waiting for Hilda to tell her the letter's contents.

"What's it say?" Lysithea asks, when Hilda is not so forthcoming.

Hilda folds up the letter. She tucks it away into the dark chasm of her purse, where all things inevitably fade into death and obscurity. "She said she included something in here for me."

Lysithea’s eyes widen. "Did she really?"

They look at the box. Then abruptly both she and Hilda start pawing through its contents for whatever it is that Edelgard packed. When they find the right bag - ribbon-wrapt and pale grey, with a tag bearing Hilda’s name in fine calligraphy - Hilda is positively trembling with excitement.

"Ohhhh, she didn't!" Hilda unties the ribbon, and opens the bag to reveal a smaller case in the same colour. She flicks that case open, and pulls out a pair of sunglasses.

At first glance they look identical to the ones Hilda prefers to wear most days. Upon closer inspection however, they are far far nicer. Their frames are - Lysithea presumes - made of actual gold, and with a more geometric shape. Despite the fact that they are inside, Hilda puts them on immediately, and her smile is beaming. The lenses are also pink, but lighter, so that Lysithea can see more of her eyes.

"Friendship officially accepted," Hilda says, picking up her drink and sucking at the straw in self-satisfaction. 

"That’s all it takes, is it? Bribery?"

Hilda adjusts the sunglasses on her nose. They match her hair and nails to perfection. "It certainly doesn't hurt."

Lysithea snorts in amusement. “You’re so easily bought.”

“Um? Excuse you. These babies cost five hundred dollars.” Hilda taps the frames with one finger.

_ “Five hundred dollars?” _Lysithea repeats, incredulous. "So, you're telling me that I could've befriended you faster by giving you stupidly expensive gifts?"

Hilda makes a contemplative noise around the straw. "Maybe. But your method was very effective, to be honest."

Still digging through the care package for her favourite biscuits to go with her coffee, Lysithea scrunches up her nose. "You mean my method of griping over a communal newspaper? That inevitably made you want to be my friend?

"Nah. It meant I wanted to jump your bones."

"Just how long were you wanting to do that for?"

"Oh, like, _ ages." _ Hilda crosses her legs, so that their ankles brush beneath the table. Lysithea does not pull her foot away. “I thought you told her we were dating?”

“I did. Pretty much the moment that weekend was over.” 

“Huh.”

“Why?” Lysithea finds the biscuits and triumphantly starts to open one up to eat. When she leans back in her seat, it means that Hilda’s ankle brushes midway up her calf now.

“Oh, you know.” Hilda waves her drink a little. 

“Obviously I don’t know, since I’m asking.”

“She’s very protective of you.”

“Ah. Yes.” Lysithea takes a bite of the outrageously expensive and delicious cookie, chewing thoughtfully. “She can be a bit over the top sometimes.”

Hilda hums a note in the back of her throat. Her eyes peer at Lysithea through the new frames of her pink sunglasses, as piercing as ever. They may have been dating for a month now - or over a month, depending on who asks - but Hilda still would occasionally wear an expression that Lysithea could not read. 

And then, out of nowhere, Hilda asks, “Was Edelgard the person you had sex with before?”

Lysithea almost chokes on her biscuit. “What? No!”

"No?" Hilda holds up her thumb and forefinger very close together. She closes one eye and squints. "Not even a little?"

Lysithea can feel the rush of heat to her cheeks. "Well, we -" she clears her throat. "We kissed. Only the once."

It had in fact been the first time Lysithea had ever kissed someone. It had happened when they had been celebrating Lysithea getting into University at the age of sixteen. To them, it had marked a pivotal moment where they could both finally live a life that existed outside of hospitals. They had shared a hospital bed like they used to as kids. They had eaten all the food they were never allowed. They had to hide the bags and wrappers from nurses that stalked down the hallways past their door.

Edelgard had kissed her while they had been stifling their giggles beneath the sheets. It had been painfully sweet, tasting of all the sugary processed foods they had eaten. When they parted, Edelgard had started to say something, but stopped herself. Lysithea never did find out what it was. 

And the next day, Lysithea had left on a plane for university. From that point on, she and Edelgard had not spent more than a week in the same city. Their lives were both too busy, diverging. 

"It was so long ago," Lysithea adds, shaking her head as if to rid herself of the memory. "Almost ten years. Whatever romantic feelings Edelgard may have had for me are long gone by now. Surely."

Hilda is watching her with an indulgent smile around the straw of her drink. "If you say so."

"Why? Are you jealous?" Lysithea needles in return, expecting Hilda to scoff.

If anything, Hilda seems positively gleeful at the accusation. "Not at all! In fact, you're welcome to invite her around to our place next time she's in town. I’m sure the bed is big enough for three."

This time, Lysithea does in fact choke. She inhales a crumb of biscuit, and it takes her a while to stop coughing. "Please tell me you're joking," she wheezes.

Hilda shrugs. "Listen, I'm into whatever makes you happy. So long as you talk to me about it first, and everyone agrees, then that's fine with me."

"I don't -!" Lysithea sets the biscuit firmly on the table, and says in an overly calm tone. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary. You're enough of a handful as it is."

"Aww... that's the _ second _ most romantic thing you've ever said to me." Hilda taps at the newspaper. “Anyway, what’s another word for ‘COMPLEX’? Starts with an ‘L’ and has a ‘B’ in it.”

“How many letters?”

“Twelve.”

“LABYRINTHINE.”

“Perfect.” Hilda writes in the clue. “Have you still not heard from Rhea yet?”

“Not yet,” Lysithea sighs. She eats the last of the biscuit, then pushes the box away, and leans her elbows on the desk. Scooting closer to Hilda, she peers down at the crossword. “It’s only been - what? Two months? My Masters thesis took longer to grade.”

“Nah. Should be any day now. I can feel it in my bones.” 

Lysithea wishes she had Hilda’s seemingly boundless confidence. 

* * *

Another month passes. The mornings are no longer brisk. Lysithea starts to leave her cardigans at home, while Hilda starts to wear clothing that is borderline inappropriate. Lysithea spies Judith squinting at Hilda as they walk by the staff coffee room one morning, as if she were debating if Hilda should be allowed to wear that top to work. 

Hilda pulls down her sunglasses and winks as they pass. Without comment, Judith scowls and returns to the sudoku they had left for her in the newspaper. Lysithea knows for a fact that Hilda carefully measures out the exact limits of the dress code with a little ruler just for that reason. 

"You're playing with fire there," Lysithea murmurs when they reach the elevators.

Hilda jostles Lysithea's elbow with her own. "Says the one who tried to trick me into taking the sudoku instead of the crossword. Did you think I didn't know Judith would get mad?"

"If your track record is anything to go by, that just means you would've been dating her instead of me."

At that, Hilda's eyes widen behind her pink-tinted lenses. "Oh, shit," she breathes. "You're _ so right." _

Lysithea laughs under her breath. The elevator doors open, and they step inside to go to their respective lecture halls.

More than once, Lysithea considers approaching Judith to ask how her thesis examination is going, even though she knows that Judith - as the Head of the department - has very little to do with the process. Lysithea and Hanneman are both excluded from talking to the examiners at any point, lest the entire thing be declared null and void by the university. 

The only other option would be to approach Rhea. To be honest, Lysithea would rather have her liver be eaten by a wild animal. A meeting with Rhea feels about the same. 

So, she waits. She teaches her classes. She spends time with Hilda. She texts Edelgard. She has the time to hang out with her old flatmates, now that she is no longer constantly working on completing her thesis. But always the lingering notion scratches at the dark spaces of her mind - that she might have failed. That something has gone wrong. That this shouldn't be taking so long. 

It happens on a lazy Saturday morning. Lysithea is seated in bed. The sheets are pulled up around her waist. Her knees are bent, and she rests the folded newspaper on her thighs. Hilda is snoozing beside her, using Lysithea’s arm as a pillow so that she can also see the crossword puzzle. 

"What's another word for ‘CONTENT’ that starts with a ‘V’?”

“‘SATISFIED’,” Hilda mumbles against Lysithea’s arm. 

Lysithea rolls her eyes. “Yes, because ‘SATISFIED’ starts with a ‘V’.” 

“Well, maybe your four down is wrong. You ever think of that?”

Lysithea chews thoughtfully at the cap of the pen. The answer occurs to her like a spark atop tinders. “It’s ‘VOLUME.’” 

“I still like my answer better.” 

“That’s because you’re still asleep,” Lysithea writes in the answer. 

“Weekends,” Hida is adamant, “are for sleeping.”

Lysithea’s phone pings on the windowsill with an email notification. 

“C’mon,” Hilda groans as Lysithea sets down the pen to pick up her phone. “I thought we agreed: no work on Saturdays.”

“I know. I know,” Lysithea says, even as she unlocks her phone to glance at who sent her the email. 

It may have been from Edelgard. Oftentimes, Edelgard would send emails from her company account, and simply click on the first of Lysithea’s addresses that popped up, rather than select the secondary personal account. 

The email application glows white. There are a number of unread messages, but she glances at the most recent one. Her eyes widen. She sits up very straight, which means that Hilda’s head drops suddenly to the bed. 

“Yo! What gives?” Hilda mumbles grumpily into her pillow. 

Lysithea hasn’t clicked on the email yet. “It’s from Rhea.”

That gets Hilda’s attention. Her head and shoulders lurch upright. She blinks blearily, the light streaming through the windows and painting her naked torso in bright strips. Her hair is a mess. She runs a hand through it as she straightens into a seated position beside Lysithea. 

“Go on, then,” Hilda urges her. “Open it.”

Lysithea’s thumb trembles. She holds her breath, and presses the email open. 

_ ‘Dear Miss Ordelia, _

_ The Dean’s Office for the Faculty of Biological Sciences and Physical Sciences is pleased to confirm that your doctoral degree has been graded and will be awarded, with a Merit pass for the thesis. _

_ You are now required to lodge one hardbound copy and one electronic copy of your thesis with the main library, as specified by university regulations. As you have applied to attend graduation at the end of this term, this must be done in two weeks time by the latest. _

_ Please find attached copies of the examiners’ reports. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Rhea, President of the University for Biology and Medicine, Dean, Division of Biological Sciences and Physical Sciences, PhD’ _

Lysithea stares. Her mouth hangs open in shock. "I've passed."

"With Merit," Hilda says. "And you know what that means. No revisions whatsoever. Just spank and bank."

_ "Spank and bank," _ Lysithea repeats, as if in awe. 

Hilda snickers at her, but she barely registers it. She's too swept up in the idea that all she has to do now is send her thesis off for printing, fill out a few forms, and then she's done.

“You knooow,” Hilda drawls, pointing at the screen. “She called you ‘Miss’ Ordelia, when really she should’ve called you _ ‘Doctor’ _ Ordelia.” 

Even the sound of the title - _ ‘Doctor Ordelia’ _ feels so surreal - sends a thrill of pleasure shivering down Lysithea’s spine. Still, she sets down her phone and says, “Technically that’s not true. I don’t graduate for another month and a half.”

“Screw that! The literal second I received the news of my thesis results, I refused to answer my brother unless he called me ‘Doctor Goneril’ for a whole month. He was so mad. You should totally make everyone call you ‘Doctor Ordelia’ now. I’ll be the first to start.”

The sound of ‘Doctor Ordelia’ has not lost its magic. Lysithea can feel her face flushing at being referred to as such three times now in less than five minutes. 

Hilda notices. 

A slow smile spreads across Hilda’s face. “Oooh?” She waggles her finger. “I saw that.”

“Saw what?” Lysithea says.

Gently, Hilda pokes at Lysithea’s still burning cheek. _ “That. _You like being called Doctor.”

“Well, of course I like it. I worked very hard for it.”

“No, I mean - you _ really _like it.” With a grin, Hilda runs her finger down Lysithea’s throat. She traces the neckline of her shirt, pulling on the fabric so that she can peer down Lysithea's pajama top to where she's wearing nothing beneath. “You want to roleplay?”

"You also have a doctorate," Lysithea reminds her, but she doesn’t push Hilda’s hand away. 

"Thank you, Captain Obvious, but also please consider: I don't get off on people calling me 'doctor'. You, on the other hand -" Hilda trails off suggestively. 

"That's absurd! I don't -! That’s -!" Lysithea goes red, and splutters. “And you and I both know we’re not those kinds of doctors!”

“Oh, _ Doctor Ordelia,” _ Hilda says in an overly breathy voice, and drapes herself across Lysithea on the bed. “I’m sooo sick! I need you to perform a _ very thorough _check up STAT.”

Lysithea pushes at Hilda without actually meaning to dislodge her. “I diagnose you with ‘horny and annoying.’”

“And only _ you _ can give me the cure, Doctor Ordelia!!” 

“You are the worst. The absolute worst. Why do I love you?”

Hilda shrugs, smiling up at her from where she sprawled across Lysithea's lap. "You have exquisite taste.”

A warmth floods Lysithea’s chest, pooling in her stomach. She overflows with it. At first it feels like it stems from the thesis results - months and months and months of pent up anxiety clawing at her gut suddenly released. But then Hilda winks, and the feeling is near overwhelming.

Lysithea leans down to kiss her. "I suppose I do."

* * *

None of Lysithea's family attend the graduation ceremony. This does not surprise her. They had not attended any of her other graduation ceremonies in the past. Indeed, the last ceremony she could recall them attending was an embittered stamping of emancipation papers at the local courthouse. And that had not been a 'ceremony' so much as a 'mutual torture session.'

Edelgard rings up to relay her regrets that she is overseas on business, and cannot be there to celebrate with her and Hilda. She sounds distressed over the phone - there is far more background noise than usual on her call - and Lysithea has to assure her multiple times that they can celebrate some other time. 

The hall is packed with people on the day. Undergrads and grad students alike line up in their ground floor seats before the stage, while the parents fill all the auditorium seats behind them in great wings. As a member of the faculty, Lysithea sits on the stage with the other academic staff. From her vantage point, she can see everyone in the crowd. 

Spotlights streak down from the ceiling; they are blindingly bright. She tries to focus on Seteth, who is acting as the master of ceremonies at the podium.

"Can't believe I'm not allowed to wear my sunglasses to this shindig," Hilda grumbles. She is seated directly to Lysithea's right, while Hanneman and Judith are to Lysithea's left.

"You could've stayed at home today," Lysithea reminds her. "None of your students are graduating."

"And let you graduate without someone taking an obnoxious amount of pictures? What do you take me for? A buffoon??"

Even as she says it, Hilda clutches her phone as though clutching at pearls strung round her neck. To drive her point home, she turns the phone horizontally and snaps a picture of Lysithea.

Lysithea glowers. 

Hilda continues taking pictures. "Oh, nice. Just like that. The scowl really captures your glittering personality."

Judith and Hanneman are starting to notice that Hilda is - predictably - starting a scene while Seteth welcomes everyone to the ceremony. Judith shoots them a look of disapproval. Lysithea can feel her cheeks heating up. 

"Is now really the appropriate time for this?" Lysithea whispers furiously.

"Just you wait until you're up there getting capped."

"Oh, dear god."

Seteth's cool-toned words issue through the microphone, while Lysithea and Hilda engage in a wrestling match over the phone. They quiet down in their seats only when the undergrads start to be called up to collect diplomas. The names are read out in alphabetical order. Rhea stands to Seteth's side, handing over each degree and shaking every hand. 

It takes ten minutes to get to the 'B's. Hilda sinks lower in her seat with a dramatic sigh. "We're going to be here until the heat death of the universe."

Nudging Hilda's elbow with her own, Lysithea points to another faculty member a few rows behind them. "Don't be obvious, but isn't that the new department head of the Divinity School? I thought they were on some sort of Sabbatical."

Hilda turns completely around in her seat to stare in the most overt way possible. "Oh, you mean Byleth Eisner? I'd heard they took a vow of silence or something."

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m serious. Have you ever heard them talk?”

Lysithea opens her mouth to respond, but pauses. “Well,” she admits. “No.”

Hilda gestures to her and then to Byleth as if that proves her point. 

“Oh, shut up.” 

Byleth notices them, and waves blankly in their direction. Hilda waves back, but Lysithea drags her hand down and turns them around to face the audience. 

Hilda takes the opportunity to lace their fingers together. She pulls Lysithea's hand into her lap. Lysithea does not complain in the slightest.

By the time Seteth drones through the undergraduates and reaches the grad students, Hilda is bored out of her mind. She toys with Lysithea's fingers in her lap. She whips out her phone and challenges Lysithea to a game of chess, despite muttering adamantly that chess is a game for nerds and losers. 

Half an hour later, the two of them are engrossed in a battle of wits and wills. Neither seems the obvious victor, and Lysithea is all but sweating beneath her graduation gown. 

Hilda takes a black knight piece, and smirks. "You can always just give up, you know."

"Over my dead body."

When Lysithea does not immediately make a move, Hilda's smile turns smug. "Want to spice things up with a bet?"

Lysithea lifts her eyebrows, but does not look up from the board. "Oh?"

"Well, I figured we would be celebrating later this evening. Because reasons. So how about -?"

"You want to wager for sexual favours," Lysithea finishes for her.

Hilda's eyes gleam wickedly in the harsh light slanting across the stage. "How'd you guess?"

"Because you're so obvious." Even so, Lysithea sticks out her hand. They are hunched behind a few other faculty members, hiding Hilda's phone from view. "Fine. You're on."

The moment Hilda seizes Lysithea's hand to seal the deal, Lysithea moves her queen across the screen to take the last remaining white bishop. Slowly, satisfyingly, Hilda's grin slides from her face in realisation.

"Checkmate."

"Why, you sneaky little -"

"And now for our doctoral students," Seteth's voice says through the microphone.

Hearing that, Lysithea nearly jumps out of her skin. She sits bolt upright, but is still too short to be seen over the person sitting in front of her. Adjusting the gold and white hood around her shoulders, she listens carefully for her name to be called.

There are only four doctoral students graduating today, and Lysithea is last in the alphabet. When Seteth says her name and her thesis title, her ears are abuzz. 

She rises to her feet. The lights flood her vision. It is difficult to see, and she has to lift the gown away from her feet to keep from tripping. It feels like walking through a dream, like the ground will yawn open beneath her feet and she will fall awake in her own bed. She barely even registers Hilda taking pictures all the while.

At the head of the stage, Rhea towers all in white, wearing an elaborate gold and red hood, and a scarlet cap. In her hands, she holds an identical cap. It is different to the graduate and undergraduate caps; it is squashy and velvet, and the gold tassel circles all around the brim.

Even now, Rhea's smile is cold and distant as a star. She refrains from showing any teeth. Lysithea does not need to duck for Rhea to place the cap atop her head. It feels like it will immediately slip to the floor. Somehow, miraculously it stays put. 

Rhea hands over the diploma in one hand, and reaches out to clasp Lysithea's hand with the other. "Congratulations, Doctor Ordelia."

Lysithea flushes at the title, and Rhea's smile broadens almost imperceptibly. It is the first time anyone except Hilda has called her that. With a final chilly squeeze of her hand, Rhea lets her go. 

Seteth nods at Lysithea as she passes on the way back to her seat. The entire row of the biological sciences department waits her her return - Hanneman flashing her a thumbs up - but only Hilda is standing at the end of the row.

Diploma in hand, Lysithea allows herself to be wrapped up in a warm congratulatory hug. Hilda kisses her cheek and murmurs for her ear alone, “Well done.”

The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur. Lysithea vaguely remembers reading and rereading every line of her diploma as if trying to decipher a foreign language. The diploma is gilded in enough gold to feed a starving village. She traces every line with her fingertips.

Finally, it is over. The faculty are permitted to leave first, filing out of two separate doors in the wings. The students soon follow, pouring out onto the street until the pavement is awash with people. 

Hilda leads her out, jostling her way further down the street in an attempt to find someplace less crowded. In her four inch heels and her far more colourful overseas graduation robes, she would be impossible for Lysithea to lose even of they weren't holding hands.

"Lysithea!"

Glancing around in confusion at the sound of her name, Lysithea tugs at Hilda's hand to get to her to stop.

There, striding through the crowd, is a very frazzled looking Edelgard. Hubert looms at strangers to get them to move, parting the mass of people like a shark through a shoal of fish. Edelgard has a folded up newspaper beneath her arm, and dark rings beneath her eyes.

“Sorry I’m late," Edelgard says when she manages to reach them, looking far more harried than her usual poise. "I rescheduled a meeting to be here, but the jet needed to refuel.”

Lysithea barely hears the words. She rushes forward and envelops Edelgard in a tight hug that makes her stagger back a step. It also knocks Lysithea's squashy cap loose. Hilda catches it by the tassel, and places it back on Lysithea's head.

Edelgard looks at Hilda over Lysithea's shoulder. "Do you have the pictures?"

With a jaunty wave of her phone, Hilda says, "So so many pictures."

"Thank you."

Pulling back from the hug slightly, Lysithea frowns at Edelgard. "Wait a second. All those pictures are _ your _fault?"

Edelgard looks guilty. "Well, I was going to ask, but Hilda offered, and -"

“Alright, you two.” Hilda interrupts. She drapes an arm around each of them, and begins steering them down the street. “I’m starving, I look cute, and I believe Hubert has booked us in somewhere nice and fancy for me to show off my new outfit. So, let's not waste any time. I’m assuming everyone here is also on the ‘no drinking' bandwagon?”

“I think for today I’ll make an exception,” Edelgard shoots Hilda a grateful glance. Then, noticing Lysithea watching them, she smiles at Lysithea from beneath Hilda’s arm. “Just one drink, though.”

Lysithea nods towards the paper still held in Edelgard’s hand. “Anything important in the news?"

For a moment, Edelgard looks in confusion down at the paper. Then she shakes her head, and hands it to Lysithea. “Someone told me you hate having to fight over the crossword in the shared staffroom newspaper, so I bought you a lifetime subscription.”

Lysithea takes the paper in the same hand that holds her diploma. The front page is the same as ever. The world is falling apart, political crises cropping up everywhere, precarious markets teetering on the edge of another GFC. And yet, the crossword puzzle is blank and waiting, and Lysithea knows that Hilda always keeps a spare pen in her bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) if this feels finished it's because chapter 8 is going to be an epilogue from Hilda's POV. Stay tuned.
> 
> 2) This story isn’t officially an ot3 or anything. I just like the idea of Edelgard being Lysithea’s first love in this AU. The two of them remain friends, and ultimately Lys does end up solely with Hilda.
> 
> That being said…....I’m always down with the idea that Lysithea has TWO hands...


	8. Chapter 8

According to Hilda -- whose opinion is the only one that counts in this matter, thank you very much -- they have been dating for over a year. It's very important that they've been dating this long, because Hilda has always refused to bring anyone home if she hasn't been dating them for at least a whole year. Meeting the family is no joke. Especially when it's _ her _family.

They are big. They are loud. They are legion. And they are big. Did she already say they were big? Well, they are.

"Jesus, that man is big," Lysithea mutters under her breath.

Hilda glances around the airport terminal, and immediately spots him. It’s difficult not to. His head and shoulders stick out above the rest of the crowd waiting for loved ones to disembark. 

He wears the same faded plaid and jeans combo from forever ago. Even though Hilda knows from experience that the clothing size is all XXL, he still manages to give the appearance that his broad shoulders and biceps will burst through the seams at the slightest provocation.

He sees her, and waves.

Returning the wave, Hilda sighs. She adjusts her pink-lensed sunglasses, and shoulders both her and Lysithea’s bags. “Yeah. That’s him alright.”

Hilda begins to stride through the crowd towards him. Lysithea trails along in her wake. “Wait. Seriously? That’s your brother?”

“I’m, like, ninety-nine percent sure.”

When they get close enough, Holst envelops Hilda in a hug that lifts her a good foot off the floor, crushing the air from her lungs. She grunts.

“It’s good to see you!” He places her back on the ground, but doesn’t let go of her shoulders. His brow furrows, and he gives her a once over. “Are you not eating enough? Look at you. Skin and bone.”

“Lay off, would you? You sound like Uncle Herrick.” Hilda shrugs his hands off, so she can readjust the bags before they fully slip down her arms.

“You know he and everyone else want to come over this weekend, right?”

“That better be a joke, Holst.”

“You rarely visit, and everyone wants to see the menagerie. Who am I to tell them they can’t see you?”

“I told you: no cousins! No uncles! Just you and dad!” As she lists them off, she drives a finger against one of his bulging pecs, and glowers up at him. “You two are enough to scare away potential suitors as it is.”

Holst is entirely unrepentant. “If they can’t handle me and dad, then there’s no way they could survive you.”

“Oh, fuck _ off.” _

Throughout the entire exchange, Lysithea has been standing to the side, watching them, silent. When Holst’s head swings in her direction, she blinks owlishly. 

Everything Lysithea thinks, she wears on her face. Every thought. Every passing notion. Even from a distance, Hilda can always tell what's running through her head. If a student asks a question that Lysithea thinks is dumb, her tiny shoulders will hunch up around her ears like she's trying to physically restrain herself from saying aloud what she really thinks.

Hilda likes to play a game. It is a dangerous game. One that involves saying increasingly outrageous things just to see what new expression it might elicit on Lysithea's face. 

So far, she is winning.

Right now, Lysithea looks belligerent. Her lower jaw is held forward the way it does when someone tall doesn’t notice her existence, and nearly walks over her. Hilda had seen that happen once in a grocery story. The man had fled from Lysithea’s wrath like a dog with its tail between its legs, while Hilda had gleefully witnessed the whole thing from the sidelines. 

Holst must notice the look in Lysithea’s eyes, too, for he holds out his hand almost warily. “You must be Dr. Ordelia. It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Holst.”

Immediately, the tension melts from Lysithea’s shoulders. She clasps Holst’s hand, and her own is utterly dwarfed by Holst’s massive paw. “Just Lysithea, please.”

Hilda rolls her eyes, and grumbles at her brother. “Wow. Really?”

Holst pulls his hand back, and gives her an innocent look. “What?”

“Why don’t you ever call me doctor? Huh?”

“I changed your diapers.”

“Well, whoop-de-fucking-do. You change one diaper, and suddenly twelve years of academic experience means fuck all.” Hilda tosses him one of the bags. “Here. Make yourself useful, Muscles for Brains.”

Holst catches the bags as though he had been expecting them to be flung at him much earlier. He smiles, and his teeth are as annoyingly perfect as ever. He has always looked like a poster boy for dentistry aimed at young veterans with hereditary gigantism. Square-cut jaw. Brown-eyed. Sandy-blonde hair that’s somehow immaculately coiffed and artfully messy all at once. She wants to ruffle his hair just to mess it up, but she knows it will only make him look better. Curse their good genes. 

He draps an arm around her shoulders, and ignores her squawk of protest to pull her into another bear hug. He kisses the side of her face. “It’s good to have you back.”

_ “Duh. _ I’m amazing. And you need to shave.” She shoves at his face to very little effect. “Your stubble is all scratchy.”

Holst lets her go. He runs an experimental hand over his jaw. “Thought I’d go for a clean lumberjack look. Is it not working?”

“Do you have dad’s straight razor at the house?” Hilda asks, waiting for his nod. “I’ll fix you up tonight, then. Now, where are you parked? I need a shower and a change of clothes.”

Jerking his head, Holst begins walking in that same direction. “This way.”

He leads them out and across the parking lot. The pickup truck that he drives gleams like it is owned by a pampered business executive and not a jock wannabe. When Holst tosses one of their bags into the cab, he says, “You two packed light.”

“I had to smuggle seven extra outfits from Hilda’s bag when she wasn’t looking,” Lysithea says, pulling at one of the door handles to open it.

“And she let you live?” Holst lets out a long appreciative whistle. “She really must love you.”

“I like to think so.” Lysithea’s tone is dry, but she flashes Hilda a small smile that warms all the way down to her toes.

For all the vehicle’s oversized cab -- with factory made sides no less, which Hilda has always told him are useless because she’s _ right _\-- it has no proper backseat. Trust Holst to buy a utility vehicle with literally no utility upsides. He could fit a whole five more sheep in the tray if he’d bought the model she recommended. What a waste. 

“Smallest goes in the middle,” Holst informs Lysithea as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “Normally that’s Hilda, but today it’s you. Them’s the rules.”

Lysithea shoots Hilda an incredulous glance. _ “You’re _the small one in the family?”

“The littlest of them all,” Holst confirms with a grin.

Hilda gives him the middle finger, which only succeeds in making his grin widen. She clambers into the vehicle after Lysithea, who is small enough that she needs a boost to get her up the first step.

“She’s also the only girl. Various aunts who married into the family don’t count,” Holst adds while he does up his seatbelt.

“This explains so much,” Lysithea says in an almost wondrous tone. 

“Yeah.” Hilda slams the door behind her. “Like how it’s a miracle that I turned out so awesome when I was raised by these bozos.”

Holst doesn’t start the car until everyone’s seatbelts are in place. He checks, like an absolute dad. Only then does he turn the key in the ignition. The engine rumbles to life.

“Excuse me,” he murmurs politely to Lysithea as he reaches for the gear stick. It’s between her knees, and she has to widen her legs a bit so he can throw the truck into gear.

“How far is your family’s place from the airport?” Lysithea asks.

“Forever,” Hilda answers, already gazing out the window in glum anticipation of the long drive.

“About three hours.” Holst flicks on the radio. “Middle seat gets control of the tunes. Don’t let Hilda bully you into picking a pop station.”

“At least there’s one upside to this seat.” Lysithea reaches forward and begins fiddling with the dials. She switches from the news station that Holst prefers and which never fails to bore Hilda out of her mind.

Hilda could have kissed her. Then, remembering that she is allowed, she does just that. She leans over to press a quick smooch to the side of Lysithea’s head.

Lysithea does not stop scrolling through various radio stations. “What was that for?”

“What? Is it against the rules to shower my super cute girlfriend with affection?”

“It is when I’m in the car,” Holst grumbles. He pulls on the steering wheel to round a corner, clearly indicating for the full three seconds as legally required.

At that, Hilda taps on Lysithea’s shoulder. “C’mon. Make out with me.”

Not even bothering to look away from the radio, Lysithea pushes Hilda’s face away with one hand.

Holst chuckles. “Okay. I like you already.”

“I’m very likeable,” Lysithea fires back without a moment’s hesitation. She tunes the radio to a classical station.

Holst’s expression brightens. He does not take his eyes off the road. “Oh! Mendelssohn!”

With a great groan of complaint, Hilda leans her head against the window. “Oh my god. I’m going to die in this dumb truck before we even make it to the hills.”

Her brother and her girlfriend start chatting about classical music, which is normally enough to send Hilda directly to sleep. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Except that now it’s noon, and she’s already had two cups of burnt coffee on the plane. Her leg jitters with caffeine. It’s going to be a long journey home. 

Fifteen minutes into the drive, Hilda is bored. She plays with the lock mechanism on her door, flicking the switch over and over in various patterns in time with the music. She makes it into a game, trying to find the best rhythm. 

“I’m amazed Hilda hasn’t tried to wrest power from the Radio Throne yet.”

Lysithea smooths an absent-minded hand over Hilda’s jean-clad knee. “She can pick the next station in an hour.”

“Thank _ god,” _Hilda mutters. 

"Since you clearly have witch-like powers -" Holst begins. "No offence. I am simply stating a fact."

"None taken," Lysithea says.

"But since you clearly have witch powers, then perhaps you can convince Hilda to write to me more often."

Hilda locks and unlocks the car door a few more times. "I told you: I'm busy."

Holst lifts one hand from the wheel to mime little air quotes. _ "Busy. _ Is that what we're calling it these days?"

"Just because I take the time to look after myself doesn't mean I'm not working on a squillion things at once. It's called 'work life balance.' Look it up."

"Never heard of her," Lysithea says.

Hilda sticks out her tongue at Lysithea. "Yeah, I know _ you _haven't, Miss Workaholic."

"That's _ Doctor _Workaholic, I'll have you know." Lysithea turns back to Holst. "And I'll see what I can do."

"Traitor," Hilda says. 

It's not that she doesn't like receiving a constant stream of letters from her brother. It's just that he always comes off as so _ needy. _ She would rather be blonde than appear _ needy. _

Lysithea points to Holst. "Is that also Hilda's original hair colour?"

Holst nods. He runs a hand through his hair, which only makes it appear even more artfully disheveled. "It sure is. She's had it dyed different colours since the age of -- oh, I don't know -- thirteen?"

"Are there pictures?"

At that, Hilda snaps upright from her slumped position. She rounds on Holst with murder in her eyes.

He ignores her, like someone with a death wish. "So many pictures. I'll show you when we get there."

"Thank you. I'd like that," Lysithea tells him.

Hilda mouths at Holst over Lysithea's head. _ 'I'll kill you.' _

She grunts when Lysithea elbows her lightly in the gut. "Don't be a hypocrite," Lysithea drawls. "I've heard it's very last season."

Before long, the cityscape outside gives way to sparse towns, then to nothing but trees and mountains as far as the eye can see. Which isn’t very far. A cold mist clings to the peaks, and flecks the windows as they begin to ascend. Slowly. Painfully slowly. Holst may be the proud owner of a douchebag truck, but he takes every switchback like he’s an old lady driving on the edge of a cliff. If she were the one driving, it would only take them two hours to reach the house.

Hilda isn’t allowed to drive with him in the car for a reason. But she only almost killed them on the road once! And it wasn’t her fault!

Okay, maybe four times. So what?? He’s such a big baby.

When Hilda begins to rummage through the glove compartment to find new means of entertainment, Lysithea absently reaches over to take her hand. Toying with Lysithea’s fingers provides enough distraction for exactly twelve minutes, at which point Hilda bends down to shuffle through her handbag for her phone. She unlocks the screen.

No reception. Fucking _ typical. _

Flinging the phone back into her bag, Hilda crosses her arms with a huff. “For the love of god, please tell me you’ve installed wi-fi at the house.”

Holst pauses in his animated discussion of seventeenth century syncopation with Lysithea to say, “Sorry. You’re going to have to actually interact with family during your visit. It’ll do you good. You spend too much time on your phone as it is.”

Hilda buries her head in her hands. 

She feels Lysithea pat her on the shoulder in a commiserating fashion. “Do you want to pick the radio station?”

Immediately Hilda’s head jerks up. _ “Yes.” _

Lysithea lets her pick the music the rest of the ride into the mountains, and it’s the best because Holst can’t complain even though Hilda can see his jaw twitching in that way that means he desperately wants to go back to his boring news talk show. But middle seat picks the radio station. Them’s the rules. And if middle seat says Hilda gets to pick the radio station, then that’s set in stone, baby.

Hilda perks up when she finally spots the sign for the village of Locket, which heralds the last twenty minute stretch of drive to her family’s house. The afternoon has well and truly set in now. Hilda’s stomach growls at the sight of the local pub on the street corner. Its familiar faded sign is comforting in the way only unchanging things can be. 

People wave at Holst’s truck as they trundle along the main drag. Despite the mist still dampening the cool air, Holst stops the truck and rolls down his window at one point to exchange neighborly words with Uncle Henrick’s youngest boy, who Hilda remembers best as a sulky nine year old. 

“Who’s that?” Lysithea whispers for Hilda’s ears alone.

“A cousin. I’m related to basically everyone in this valley.” Hilda waves out the window as her cousin peers inside. “Hiya, Hayden!”

Hayden tips his cap back to get a better look at them. “Oh, hey, Hilda! Holst mentioned you’d be back in the area.”

“Just for the weekend,” Hilda confirms. 

“That’s a shame.”

Hilda lowers her voice so that Hayden and Holst can’t hear, “It really isn’t.”

Holst pulls away from the curb, not because someone is behind him -- there aren't enough people in Locket to rustle sheep let alone the will to use a car horn. Besides, chances are that if you honked at somebody, you'd get a telling off from your mother for being shitty to a cousin later that night over dinner. That or you just get into a good honest blood feud over firewood during wintertime.

No, the reason why Holst hurries along is because the sun is starting to set on the mountains to the west, and dad can't cook for himself anymore. Holst apologises to Hayden for as much, and Hayden waves them along with the promise to talk to Uncle Herrick for them about rotating some of the cows over to another field for grazing. 

Hilda hates that she knows exactly what they're talking about. Hell, her first ever degree was in large animal sciences before she realised that she never wanted to stick her arm up a cow ever again, thank you very much. 

The truck trundles along through the village. The main drag of Locket is the only paved road in these parts. Holst turns left and onto dirt. For all that Hilda berates her brother for his poor taste in vehicles, at least his truck can take all terrain. 

The side of her head bounces against the window, dislodging her sunglasses. "Are you trying to hit every pothole between here and the moon?”

“You know it's impractical to gravel everything apart from the driveway,” Holst counters. 

Their bodies sway as he hits yet another pothole. Hilda adjusts her sunglasses on the bridge of her nose with a huff of irritation. 

“I thought it was cute,” Lysithea says. “The town, I mean.”

_ “Village,” _ both Holst and Hilda say at the same time.

“It’s not a town,” Holst clarifies, when Lysithea gives them each an odd look.

Hilda nods, but only because the truck’s tyres are bobbing her up and down like a jackhammer. “Town is where the bigwigs live. Or, as we like to call them: _ ‘townies’.” _

“Jesus Christ,” Lysithea mutters under her breath. “How many people actually live out here?”

“About .09 people every hectare. Which is to say: three hundred and seven inhabitants,” Holst answers.

Hilda’s eyebrows shoot up over the rims of her sunglasses in surprise. “Oh, shit? Who died? Was it Great Uncle Hartwig? My money was on Great Uncle Hartwig.”

“You are vulgar for taking part in that betting pool.”

“But was it him?”

“No, it was not.”

Hilda raps her knuckles against the dashboard. “Damn.”

“Yes, we are all very sad that Great Uncle Hartwig is still alive,” Holst says dryly. 

The dirt road twists and turns all along the hills. They pass paddocks full of cows and mobs of sheep. The grass is so green it makes Hilda glad she'd brought her sunglasses, even though the sunlight is hidden behind the thick mist that shrouds the mountains. 

Holst rounds another bend, and the dirt road gives way to gravel. They drive along for another minute before the house finally comes into view. 

The house is everything that Hilda is not. Rustic, and tidy, and homey. It’s why she always frequents Claude’s bar. She likes the woodsy feel. It makes her feel at home.

Also, Claude is cute, and good company, with great taste in little underground live bands. Plus the drinks are killer.

Hilda undoes her seatbelt, and hops out of the truck before Holst even had time to shut off the engine. She offers a hand to help Lysithea down, and then reaches into the back for their bag. One of the herding dogs comes hurtling from the house towards them, and Hilda has to shoo it away. 

"No, Brindle! Down! _ Brindle! _ This is Gucci!!" Hilda pushes the dog away before it can make a complete mess of her outfit, but it's too late. There's already dog fur ingrained into the fabric of her black slacks. She sighs in resignation. 

Lysithea pets the dog when it snuffles around her feet, its tail wagging excitedly. She quickly retracts her hands, though. 

“Oh.” Lysithea scrunches up her nose. “He’s quite filthy.”

“He’s one of our working dogs,” Hilda points out. “We don’t let him in the house. I would recommend washing your hands before eating.”

Lysithea is already wiping her hands off on her skirt. “Noted.”

Holst is the first in the house. He bellows their arrival with a single "We're home!!" while taking off his boots in the narrow hallway that acts as an atrium. While Hilda and Lysithea are taking off their own shoes, they can hear another voice from further inside the house calling back to them. 

Hilda sets their bags down before walking further along. She makes sure Lysithea is following while they traverse the familiar twists and turns of the sprawling single-story farm house. Everything is wood accented. The white-painted walls and panelled floors and exposed beams. Everything is also properly sized for Hilda's family, which means that Lysithea looks like a pale doll walking through a human house. All of the shelving is higher, all the pictures hung at a level where Hilda and Holst can see but which Lysithea has to crane her neck to simply catch a glimpse of. And when they enter the living room, all of the furniture is massive.

Dad sits on his old leather armchair in front of the television. A stack of books and magazines are piled precariously at his elbow. An empty cup of tea teeters atop one the books. The television is on, but his gnarled fingers fumble with the remote for a few seconds while he figures out how to mute it without stabbing a million other buttons at the same time. 

Her father struggles to his feet. He has to push himself up from the chair, painstakingly slow. Hilda bites back the urge to help him; he would’ve hated it. Watching him makes her chest tighten, as though her sternum is trying to meld with her spine. 

He used to stand taller than Holst and just as broad. Her memories of him are always of a man with energy and exuberance to spare. Now he stoops. His hands shake, his fingers gnarled and worn to the bone beneath skin that’s paper-thin. 

Hilda hugs him as soon as he’s on his feet. He pats her on the back, then uses a heavy hand on her shoulder to steady himself. 

“You’re taller,” he says. 

“You’re shorter,” she replies. 

He squints at her, as though suspicious. His eyes are magnified behind the thick lenses of his glasses. Hilda dreads the day that her own eyesight deteriorates to that stage. Dior does not make prescription glasses that thick. Her amassed collection of sunglasses is already in need of a fresh trip to the optometrist as it is. 

His gaze swings past her and lands on Lysithea, who stands behind Hilda. He nods at her, a jerky motion more than anything else, and says, "You must be Hilda's new beau."

Lysithea clears her throat. "Ah. Yes. Hi."

"What he means to say -" Hilda fills in for her dad, "- is 'It's so nice to meet you, Hilda's super cute and awesome girlfriend! My name is Harald! Welcome to my ancestral home, where generations of Gonerils have been born and raised!"

"Don't call me Harald," Harald grumbles. 

"Dad. It's your name."

"It makes me sound old."

"You _ are _ old."

"Months without visiting, and then two minutes at home and already you slander your poor martyred father." He gestures at Lysithea and then at Hilda. "You see what I have to put up with?"

Hilda puts her hands on his wrists. "Okay. I'm going to drop you to the floor now."

"My point exactly." Rather than complain, he pats at her arms. "Help me back into my seat."

She does. It takes a while. His legs don't want to support him properly, and his back doesn't seem to want to bend. 

"Where’s your cane?" Hilda asks, when she's finally got him situated back in his chair. She turns to where Holst is leaning in the kitchen doorway. “Holst, where’s his cane?”

Holst shrugs. “I saw it before I left.”

From the sidelines, Lysithea reaches behind a chair and produces a darkly polished wooden cane. “Is this it?”

Hilda takes it, and props it against the armrest of her dad’s chair. “Stop losing this.”

“It makes me look old.”

“Oh my god. _ Dad.” _

He ignores her. "Hilda, go help your brother make dinner."

Hilda whines, "Holst doesn't need my help. He's fine."

"Actually -" Holst begins from the kitchen doorway.

"Nobody asked you," Hilda says. Then she grabs the bags she had set on the ground. "Besides. I need a shower, and to give my girlfriend a tour of the place."

Dad grumbles, but he's now expended too much energy trying to sit back down to really argue. Once upon a time she would have needed to really wheedle her way out of making dinner, but these days all it takes is for her to be out of sight. Dad can't go racing after her anymore and haul her back over his shoulder to do chores while she pounds her tiny fists ineffectually against his back. Though in truth she wishes he still had that mobility. Seeing him like this is far worse.

Hilda tilts her head to one side, "C'mon. My old room is this way."

"It was nice meeting you," Lysithea says to Harald, who waves her away with a brief smile. 

Hilda has already started off down the hall, and Lysithea trots after her. Behind them they can hear the sound of the television starting up again in the living room. Hilda nods towards various doors and rooms as they go, giving a running notation of what everything is.

"That's the master bedroom. Dad sleeps there. Holst's room is over there. There's the bathroom for the living room. Here’s my room. It has its own ensuite bathroom, so we don’t have to fight Holst for it.”

“Let me guess -” Lysithea steps into the bedroom, which looks exactly as Hilda remembered. “-They gave you your own bathroom because you spent so much time in it that nobody else could use it.”

“I am insulted you would even suggest such a thing!” Hilda tosses their bags onto the bed, and begins to unpack. 

“That doesn’t mean: no.”

“Anyway!” Hilda changes the topic by gesturing to the room at large while she hangs her outfits in the closet. “This is where I grew up. Surrounded by farmland sans internet. Starved for culture.”

Lysithea joins her in unpacking. “You’re being a bit dramatic.”

“Who? Me?” Hilda pulls out her spare hair dryer, along with a whole host of emergency make-up supplies that were packed alongside Lysithea’s medication case. “But seriously, though. The nearest library is an hour away by car. And that’s only if the rain hasn’t flooded the main road into Locket.” 

“Where’s the school?”

“With the library,” Hilda answers from the bathroom. 

She arranges all of her supplies, and sets down Lysithea’s travel cup on the sink counter so that Lysithea can use it for her morning Routine. When she emerges from the bathroom, Lysithea has neatly unpacked the rest of their things in all the exact places that Hilda likes them to be. 

Hilda points in the direction of the kitchen. “Do you want a cup of coffee?”

Mischief crosses Lysithea’s face, and she says, “No, thank you.”

Hilda narrows her eyes. “What?”

With a nonchalant shrug, Lysithea says, “Nothing! I just saw all those picture frames over the fireplace earlier.”

For a moment, neither of them move or say anything. Then, Lysithea makes a dash for the bedroom door. She’s out before Hilda can close her in, and prevent her from seeing said photos. Hilda almost catches her in the hallway, but Lysithea’s height means she’s slippery and sly and difficult to grab hold of. 

Harald barely even glances up when the two of them barrel into the living room. Everything in this house is Goneril-Proof anyway. They couldn’t break things if they tried. And Hilda and Holst had tried before. Many many times. 

On the mantlepiece over the smoke-blackened fireplace, there are a host of picture frames cluttering around the riverstone chimney. Lysithea makes a bee line for them. Most are family reunion pictures. The family is too large to photograph altogether, so they are sectioned off by age group. Hilda is the only girl amidst a mountain of boys. 

“Tell me about this one,” Lysithea demands as she picks one up.

With a sigh, Hilda relents and does just that. 

There are a few other more personalised pictures. Hilda points to each of the ones that Lysithea asks about. There's mom looking young with her sandy-blonde hair before the cancer took care of all that at the age of fifty-two. There's her parents getting married. There's Holst at his first shooting competition. There's a baby picture of Hilda all swaddled up (and the cutest image on the shelf, if she does say so herself). 

Hilda tells stories about each of her cousins. Dad pipes in from the peanut gallery to add corrections or embellishments. About how Hans busted her tooth when they were kids and had to share a bed. About how she waged war on the boys by weaponising cow pats. How she would do anything to win -- scratch, bite, cry, you name it.

Lysithea leans forward on her toes to observe a photo down the back. It's a picture of Hilda at the age of twelve, a baby-faced version of herself that she hardly recognises. Dad had snapped it after her first successful hunt with Holst. The two siblings are frozen in a pose over a freshly killed buck. Holst is looking at her rather than at the camera, a broad smile splitting his face in two.

In the picture, Hilda is caught mid sentence. She holds the rifle easily at her shoulder. Her jeans are torn at the knees. Her hair is dishwater blonde and loosely gathered in a simple ponytail at the base of her neck. Her plaid is baggy and rolled up at the sleeves to reveal her scrawny forearms. Her chest is covered in a high-vis vest. A pair of Holst's dark sunglasses are perched atop her head. She used to always steal them when she was younger. 

Slowly Lysithea picks up the picture. "You look so different."

"Ugh. I know. It's awful." 

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Please. Look at me. I'm wearing -" Hilda shudders in disgust, _ "- sneakers." _

Lysithea’s thumb traces over the edge of the picture frame. “I would’ve liked to have known you then.”

Hilda snorts. “No. You don’t. Trust me. I was a little shit.”

“And you aren’t anymore?”

Making a face at Lysithea, she continues. “Very funny. Besides, you would’ve been, like, seven. And even if you had been my age, I probably would’ve picked on you so hard.”

“I doubt that.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Edelgard would’ve had me assassinated.”

With a huff of laughter, Lysithea says, “I can’t imagine you being mean to me in any lifetime.”

“Listen. That’s flattering. Really. But I’ve seen pictures of you when you were younger, remember? And I know what I was like back then.” Hilda picks up another photo, this one of Holst holding Hilda in one arm, and the Commonwealth championship trophy she’d won at the age of fourteen in the other. Her hair is dyed a sickening electric blue in the photo, and her makeup is way way over the top. 

“Alright, then. I’ll bite.” Lysithea gestures with the picture in her own hand. “Why would you have picked on me?”

“Because you were so cute. _ Obviously. _ I mean you still are,” Hilda assures her, to which Lysithea just rolls her eyes. “But back then, I would’ve been super jealous. And also very in the closet to myself.”

“Ahh,” Lysithea nods in understanding. “You were one of _ those.” _

“Yeah, yeah. I got over it. Thank god. Still took me until the age of sixteen or so to realise I wasn’t jealous of other girls, I just wanted to kiss them. And their boyfriends. You know. Because I’m not a coward.” 

Placing the picture back on the mantlepiece, Hilda scrunches up her nose. She runs her finger along the varnished wood, and it comes up with a thick layer of dust. _ “Ew. _Nobody ever cleans around here while I’m gone!”

“At least it’s tidy,” Lysithea points out. She places the other picture back, and discreetly wipes the dust from her own fingers off on her cardigan.

“What’s the point of things being tidy if they’re not _clean? _Excuse me. I need to go yell at my brother for polishing his Olympic medals, but nothing else.” Hilda turns and starts to march towards the kitchen.

* * *

In the end, she does wind up helping with dinner despite her best protests. Lysithea is no help, either. When Hilda pokes her head from the kitchen, it’s to find that Lysithea has sat down on one of the couches and is engaged in conversation with dad. And they seem to be having -- Hilda has to check her sunglasses to make sure they’re the right prescription -- a good time. Unbelievable. 

Hilda’s only consolation is that she manages to weasle her way out of doing the dishes. She only feels slightly guilty when Lysithea and Holst do them together, chatting all the while. She did end up doing the bulk of the cooking, after all. No matter what Holst claims.

Instead, Hilda wanders back to her room for a shower. Short, because the hot water tank at the farm doesn’t last long, and she doesn’t want dad yelling at her on the first day of the trip. When she emerges from the bathroom amidst a billow of steam and wrapped in nothing but two towels -- one for her body, the other for her hair -- Hilda pauses in the doorway. 

Lysithea is curled atop the bed. Her legs are folded beneath her. She reads from a tablet loaded with more books than are contained in most libraries. Hilda knows. She's seen Lysithea's online library account. 

Hilda crosses the room, and jumps onto the free side of the bed. Lysithea does not look up despite the mattress bouncing beneath Hilda's weight. She is utterly engrossed in whatever book she is reading. 

"Whatcha reading?" Hilda asks. She takes off the towel wrapped atop her head, and pats her hair dry before tossing it back towards the bathroom. 

The tips of Lysithea's ears go an appealing apple red. "Nothing of interest."

Hilda immediately zooms in on the blush. It must have been a smutty book, in that case. "Oh, really? That's a shame."

Letting her hand smooth over one of Lysithea's knees, Hilda pretends that it's an idle motion. All the while she watches for a change in Lysithea's expression. The white stockings are fine beneath Hilda's palm. The corner of Lysithea's mouth twitches, and Hilda lets her fingers trail a little further up Lysithea's thigh. Just far enough to play with the edge of her skirt.

Still, Lysithea makes no comment. She continues reading in a valiant effort to ignore Hilda. 

"Soooo," Hilda drawls. Her hand continues to stroke along Lysithea's leg, but never too high to be considered indecent should they be happened upon by snooping older brothers. “Is my humble family abode everything you’d imagined and more?”

Lysithea taps at her tablet screen to turn the page in her book. “It sure is something.”

“Wow. Yikes. That bad, huh?”

“No, not bad. Just different. Not what I expected, knowing you.” 

“Would I fit in better if I wore cowboy boots and assless chaps?”

“I think you would rather die than be caught wearing something like that.”

“You underestimate the lengths I will go to for a bad joke.”

Lysithea snorts in amusement, and turns another page. “Well, if you do, then let me know. El would love a picture.”

“Oh, I’m sure she would.” 

A comfortable silence falls over them. Hilda memorises the pattern of the stocking beneath her hand. "I'm bored."

"Sucks for you."

"Can I go down on you?"

“Didn’t you just take a shower?”

“Yeah? And?”

Lysithea glances at her over the top of the tablet. Then she eyes the door. "How thin are these walls?"

Hilda taps her knuckles against the wall behind their bed. "Like bedrock."

From another room, they hear Holst sneeze. Clear as a bell.

"Surface bedrock," Hilda amends. "Compacted gravel, even. Okay, maybe more like asbestos. But that’s still a rock!"

Lysithea purses her lips, but there's a considering air to that particular furrow in her brow. It's the same expression she wears when she's offered one slice of cake too many, but is still tempted to eat.

"We don't have to," Hilda assures her. She swings her legs over the side of the bed. "I can go blow off steam by splitting wood."

"Is that a euphemism?"

"Nope." Hilda jerks her thumb towards one of the night-darkened windows. "There's an axe and a bunch of logs out back near the porch light. Out here, we always need firewood."

Just as she’s about to take a step towards the door, Hilda feels something pull at the edge of the towel. She turns. Lysithea has reached out and is pulling her back towards the bed. The towel is tugged free, and falls to the floor. Lysithea’s eyes have an intense look that never fails to make Hilda’s pulse spike. 

When Hilda flops back onto the bed beside her, Lysithea sets her tablet aside. She rolls over to straddle Hilda’s waist, steadying herself with hands at Hilda’s chest. 

“You’re going to have to be quiet,” Lysithea warns.

“I can be quiet! Can you?”

As it turns out, they both can. But one of the pillows suffers for it. 

* * *

Holst cooks breakfast the next morning. Hilda has to cut up dad's food for him, while bickering with her brother over the radio station, and Lysithea queries Harald about the farm. By the time Hilda is actually able to sit down and eat, her own food has gone cold.

Holst slides a cup of hot tea her way. "Here."

"Thanks," she sighs, taking a sip despite its scalding temperature. 

Holst lumbers into the spare seat beside Lysithea. He gently bumps her elbow with his own as he tucks into breakfast. "I thought you might like to go shooting this afternoon."

Lysithea blinks at him. "I've never handled any sort of firearm before."

"Don't worry. Hilda and I can show you the ropes." Holst winks at his sister. "Unless she's so rusty from living in town, that she can't tell which way to point the barrel."

In response, Hilda meets his gaze with a steely expression. "Oh, you're on, pretty boy."

"Excellent. I love wiping the floor with you."

"As if. I'm going to win, and I'm going to do it in style."

Chewing at his eggs and toast, Holst takes a moment to swallow before speaking. He gestures at Hilda with his fork. "You're not really going dressed like that, are you?"

Hilda rakes a hand through her long pink hair. "I said what I said."

He snorts. "Yeah. Alright. Sure."

"You couldn't rock this look, let alone do it while shooting."

Holst's chewing slows. He leans back in his seat, and pats at his mouth with a napkin. "Is that a challenge?"

She grins at him. "You bet your ass it is."

Dad stabs at his own eggs with a fork, and mumbles to Lysithea, "They've been this way since forever. You get used to it."

"If you say so," Lysithea says. She watches from the sidelines with an expression that is intrigued, but in a wary way. Like she half expects there to be bloodshed by the end of the day.

Rising to his feet, Holst tosses down his napkin. He points at Hilda. "You. Me. Bathroom. Now. Bring your girly hair products."

"Oh, _ fuck yes," _ Hilda breathes, shoving herself away from the table to stand. 

"Is this really a good idea?" Lysithea asks.

Neither Hilda nor Holst are listening. They are already racing each other to the restroom. Hilda has to take a diversion to shuffle around in her old room for the hair dye she had left behind from her last visit. After a minute or two of searching, she finally finds what she's looking for, and pushes her way into the bathroom, where Holst is draping a towel around his broad shoulders and getting his hair wet in the sink.

"Bleach first," Hilda instructs, leaning over the sink to help him. "We need to get your hair a lighter shade before putting any colour in."

He doesn't even ask what colour she'd picked. "Do your worst, Dr. Gonorrhea."

She brandishes the little bottle of bleach at him. "Call me that again. I dare you."

By the time they finish dying his hair, it's two in the afternoon. Hilda wields a hairdryer and a brush. Not that he needs to have his hair styled. Somehow, it always comes up perfect.

Holst admires himself in the mirror after she has finished. He runs a hand through his hair, which is now the same shade as her own. "Not bad."

“You’re welcome.” Hilda ruffles his hair, which only makes him look rakishly tousled. 

Leaning in the doorway, Lysithea says, "Now you two look like twins."

"Could be worse, I guess," Hilda shrugs and puts the hairdryer away. "Let's go shoot something." 

They take Holst's truck to an empty paddock facing the hills. There's already an Olympic sized skeet range in place there. Dad had installed it years and years ago, and Holst had been maintaining it ever since. 

Hilda takes out the munitions box, while Holst handles the soft shotgun cases. Lysithea follows after them with a wary expression when Hilda hands over hearing protection. 

"Keep them on unless the range master declares the range closed," Hilda says. 

Lysithea immediately puts the hearing protection over her head and ears. "Who's the range master."

"Me," both Hilda and Holst say at the same time.

Holst pulls a coin from his pocket. "Heads or tails?"

"Tails."

He flips it. Glimmer of gold and aluminium, which he snatches out of the air and slaps onto the back of his hand.

Tails.

Hilda pumps her fist in triumph.

“And what exactly does it mean to be a range master?” Lysithea asks slowly.

“It means you have to do everything I say.”

“It means she’s in charge of the safety of the range until she leaves.” Holst starts taking firearms from their bags and propping them up on the stands beneath the firing platform awning. “And that we have to do everything she says.”

“Surely not everything,” Lysithea says.

Hilda points at Holst without looking at him. “Give me five push ups.”

Lysithea watches in horrified fascination as Holst sighs, drops to the ground, and does five push ups.

“See?” Hilda says smugly. “It’s rule number five. Which brings me to the next point: Safety.”

Holst finishes setting up while Hilda gives Lysithea the ‘Goneril Family Gun Safety Talk.’ 1) No pointing guns at other people even if unloaded, or you get a punch to the mouth. 2) No pointing guns in any direction other than down the range, or you get a punch to the mouth. 3) Treat every firearm as if it’s loaded, or you get a punch to the mouth. 4) No alcohol or other intoxicants on the range, or you get a punch to the mouth. 5) Obey the range master at all times, or the range master will personally punch you in the mouth. 

“Why is there so much punching in this?” Lysithea asks after number five. “This seems like the opposite of safety.”

“It’s part of the time honoured traditions of the Goneril Family of Idiot Boys and Also Hilda,” Hilda says, still holding up her hand where she had been ticking off each rule on her fingers. “Lastly, number six: only load a firearm when ready to fire, or you -”

“- Okay. Yeah. I get it.” Lysithea says. 

“Good!” Hilda claps her on the shoulder and steers her towards the platform. “You’re first.” 

“W-Wait. Me?” Lysithea glances at one of the shotguns as though it will suddenly rear up and bite her. 

“Relax. It will be fun. I promise.” Hilda puts on her own hearing protection, the muffs bright red. “Range open!” 

Holst immediately follows suit. His own pair of ear muffs are the same colour and brand, but older and faded from years of use. He drops down into a chair behind them, folding an ankle over his opposite knee, watching with the claybird machine remote in his hand. When Lysithea shoots him a nervous look, he flashes her a thumbs up and a grin. 

Under Hilda's instruction, Lysithea sets the shotgun firmly into her shoulder. Hilda uses her hands to guide Lysithea's legs apart so that her stance is more stable, and then places her hands on Lysithea's waist to steady her.

"Whenever you're ready. Just tell Holst to pull, and go for the claybird." Hilda gently squeezes Lysithea's hips. "And remember: try to keep your movements fluid. Track the target."

"Shouldn't we be starting off with something stationary?" Lysithea asks.

"Animals aren't stationary when you shoot them for the most part. Now, go ahead."

Hilda can feel Lysithea take a deep breath. Lysithea shrugs at the firearm, and then barks out firmly, "Pull."

There's a two second delay before the target zips across the air. Lysithea fires immediately, flinching from the shotgun before she has even pulled the trigger. She would've been blown back onto her butt if Hilda hadn't been standing directly behind her. 

Lowering the shotgun, Lysithea rubs at her shoulder with one hand. "Ow."

"You get used to it," Hilda assures her. "This is a pretty light shell as well. Tuck the shotgun into the meat here -" she rubs at the right spot on Lysithea's shoulder. "- and lean into it a bit. But don't flinch! It’s a bad habit!"

Lysithea’s jaw takes on that familiar bullish slant, and she hikes up the shotgun once more. “Pull.”

She misses. And again. After the fifth try, she finally manages to clip the claybird, which sends a puff of bright purple smoke trailing through the air. Lysithea turns to Hilda and Holst, flushed with pride, and Hilda has to grab her arms and point the shotgun back down the range.

“Rule number two!” Hilda reminds her.

“Sorry! Sorry.” Lysithea grimaces apologetically. “Please don’t punch me in the mouth.”

“Rules are rules,” Hilda says resignedly. And then kisses her.

Behind them, Holst yells, “Boooo! That’s not how the rule works!!”

Hilda flips him off while she’s still kissing Lysithea. By the time she lifts her head, Lysithea’s cheeks have gone pink, and her grip has slackened around the stock of the gun. Hilda taps the shotgun with her finger, and murmurs, “Seriously, though. Don’t break the rules.”

“Y-Yeah. Got it.” 

It takes Lysithea a few more rounds to be comfortable enough that Hilda doesn’t have to keep a steadying hand at the small of her back. But Hilda does so anyway. She strokes her thumb at the divot of Lysithea’s spine. Lysithea’s next shot misses wildly.

“You’re very distracting,” Lysithea mutters. 

“I could be more distracting.”

From behind them, Holst cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Rule number seven: No hands on butts, or you get a punch to the mouth!”

“That’s not a rule!” Hilda shouts back.

“It is now!” Holst stands and approaches one of the other stations beneath the platform. He picks up a shotgun from the rack, and tosses the claybird remote to Hilda. “Pull for me, so I can get a higher score than you.”

With ease Hilda catches the remote. “You talk a big game for someone who still hasn’t beat my high score.”

“Only one Goneril sibling has won an Olympic medal, and it’s not you.” 

Hilda gives Lysithea a quick peck to the cheek, before turning away from her to confront Holst. She crosses her arms. “If I win, you have to take us to the the pub for dinner with your hair the way it is.”

“Fine.” He loads two shells, and then snaps the shotgun into place. “And if I win, then you dye my hair back to its normal colour, and acknowledge that I am The Supreme.”

Hilda rolls her shoulders, cricking her neck back and forth. "Alright. Let's do this."

From the sidelines, Lysithea raises one of her hands. “Do I shoot as well, or -?”

“You see that over there?” Hilda points at a mound of dirt with what looks like a rack of spoons dangling from a steel bar. “That’s a reactive target. Go for those, while I show this guy who’s boss, and then we’ll go back to pulling for you. Or, you can put the gun down, and watch if you prefer.”

“Alright.” Lysithea breaks the shotgun in two, and throws the shells in one of the bins just like Hilda showed her. Much to Hilda’s surprise, Lysithea reaches for another two shells and loads them into the over-under barrels. 

Behind her, Holst clears his throat.

Hilda turns back to him. “Yeah, yeah. Keep your tighty-whities on.”

He shoulders the shotgun. "Pull."

She clicks the button on the remote. A three second delay, and two claybirds zoom out across the air. Holst's movements are fluid, controlled, and precise. He seamlessly tracks the projectiles one after the other, and utterly obliterates them.

"Pull."

In the end, it's a near perfect set. It would have been perfect had it not been for Lysithea sneezing to the side. Hilda could have kissed her, but Lysithea apologises so much that neither Hilda nor Holst believe for a second that it was done on purpose. Holst is a good sport when he's not facing off against family members, and he pats her on the arm good-naturedly. 

Finally, Holst offers the shotgun to Hilda. They swap out the gun and the remote. Hilda takes his position. She rolls her shoulders and adjusts her pink-tinted sunglasses to calm herself. The firearm is a familiar weight in her hands. Even years after giving up the sport, holding a shotgun in her hands feels like breathing fresh air. 

"Getting cold feet?" Holst asks. 

Hilda tosses her head, and sniffs. "You wish."

Lysithea has stopped shooting, and her shotgun is leaning up against the stand. She observes from the sidelines next to Holst. Suddenly there’s a prickle of sweat running between Hilda’s shoulder blades, despite the fact that the air holds a chill, and the mountains are shrouded in dense fog. Hilda wishes that she had opted to wear a scarf along with her classic Burberry trenchcoat. 

Turning back towards the range, Hilda says, "Pull."

It's a perfect set. Hilda celebrates like she’s fourteen again and just won a tournament. Holst drops down to his knees and clutches his pink hair with a groan. Beside him, Lysithea golf-claps politely, even as she assures Holst that she personally thinks he looks very nice. 

Pushing to his feet, Holst concedes defeat. "Guess dinner's on me."

"Damn right it is," Hilda says far more confidently than she had felt just minutes before. She unloads the shotgun, and then hands it back to her brother. "Here you go."

They trade, remote for shotgun again. "You don't want to keep going?"

"After that set? No way. Better to end on a good note." 

Hilda walks back over to stand beside Lysithea, who slips an arm around her waist and leans her head against Hilda's arm. She is warm, and her pale hair is soft. Feeling like she is floating on a cloud, Hilda kisses the top of her head. Hilda can feel a thrill of pleasure working its way into her lungs like she's taken a sip of warm tea. 

Another hour or so passes before the sun starts its descent, and the winds pick up speed. Hilda declares the range closed. They pack up, and clamber back into Holst’s bro truck. 

"Is your dad going to be okay on his own tonight?" Lysithea asks when Holst starts the truck.

"He'll be fine," Holst assures her. "I cooked him dinner already. It's in the fridge, so he can just heat it in the microwave."

The truck trundles its way down the one of many dirt paths that run along the farm to various paddocks. As they pass, a few curious cows lift their heads and watch them go by. The sheep shy away from the noisiness of the vehicle, but are otherwise unconcerned. Hilda strikes up a conversation with her brother about when he's planning on tupping this season and if that new ram panned out. Holst enthusiastically tells her everything about his plans. 

It takes a good twenty minutes to drive down to the main drag of Locket. The farm roads are steep in some places, and Holst drives like an arthritic grandma. By the time they arrive at the pub, the sky has darkened to a dark lavender grey, and Hilda is starving. 

Hilda holds open the door to the local watering hole. Holst goes in first, and is immediately flocked to by a group of local girls. From the doorway, Hilda watches, mouth agape, as her brother does the big bashful gentle giant act, and they all fall for it. Hook, line, and sinker. 

As he’s being dragged away by both hands, Holst mouths over his shoulder at her, _ ‘I told you so.’ _

Hilda rolls her eyes. She stomps over to a free booth, and sits down, followed by Lysithea, who sits across from her. When a waiter comes over to take their orders, Hilda gets the strongest drink she can find on the menu to go with their meals. 

"God,” she groans. “He's going to be so insufferable later." 

"You two really are related," Lysithea teases.

Hilda shoots her a warning glance. _ "Don't." _

Holding up one hand in surrender, Lysithea grins around her soda. 

Their meals arrive. People periodically wander up to their booth to talk to Hilda. They use small talk and catching up with Hilda after so long as an excuse to snoop. Word of Lysithea has whipped through the small town like wildfire. Hilda does her best to shoo people away with her usual charm, or -- failing that -- painfully sweet passive-agressiveness. 

For the most part it works. There are still those that aren’t the least bit dissuaded, despite Hilda’s best efforts. Luckily, Lysithea is as immune to small country, backwater charm as ever. She takes every new introduction in stride, coolly shaking hands, and nursing her sodas. Meanwhile, Holst is making the rounds. The belle of the ball. As usual. 

Hilda sighs, and orders another drink along with an extra basket of wedge-cut fries. 

Lysithea abstains from alcohol, but Hilda indulges just a little. She doesn’t realise she’s a little buzzed until she catches herself watching Lysithea over the top of her glass, and thinking about all the ways she could try to get Lysithea to sneak around the back of the pub and make out with her. The thought of pinning her against a wall and slipping a hand through a gap in that button down shirt sends a flush rushing to Hilda’s cheeks, and a heat directly between her legs. 

Lysithea is, of course, oblivious. Even after all this time, it takes all of Hilda’s blunt straightforwardness to get Lysithea’s pants off. Or skirt. Whatever. She looks cute in either. She looks cute in anything. And in nothing. 

Someone puts money in the old jukebox, and Hilda is genuinely surprised when music starts to play. She and her cousin, Hans, had broken that piece of junk back when she was seventeen. She could still see the dents from here. Holst must have paid to have it fixed. That, or he will have fixed it himself, like the cool and honourable guy she had always admired, loved, yet also resented. 

Said cool and honourable guy is currently gesturing at them from across the pub. 

“What on earth does he want now?” Hilda grumbles, and Lysithea turns in her seat, craning her neck to look at Holst.

Holst mimes dancing with his beer, and then points at the two of them. 

Okay. His ‘cool and honourable brother’ status has officially been rescinded. 

A few other people have indeed begun to clear a few chairs away to make space for dancing. They are pairing off. One of the girls who had been fawning over Holst earlier is now dragging him onto the dancefloor away from his beer and conversation with cousins. Meanwhile, Lysithea has hunched up her shoulders and is studiously staring into her half-empty soda as though the idea of dancing in front of a bunch of strangers causes her physical pain.

Hilda plays a bit of footsie with her under the table until Lysithea glances up at her. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Fuck Holst.”

The song has changed into something a little more classic yet lively. Old rock with a heavy strain of twelve bar blues. 

Lysithea lifts her head somewhat. Her pale hair is done up in a loose bun at the base of her neck, so that she looks like an escapee librarian from the 1930s. She tucks a loose strand behind one ear. “We could, if you wanted,” she says, eyes darting to Hilda. “I know you like dancing, even if it’s not something in which I typically partake.”

She wants to. She wants to so badly there's an ache in her chest. But Lysithea is watching her with an almost wary expression, like she expects Hilda to leap up and drag her onto the dancefloor without a moment's hesitation. That alone gives Hilda pause.

A few months ago, she would have done just that -- grabbed Lysithea at the first say so, and danced until Lysithea was pink in the face and needed to sit down to catch her breath. Now however, Hilda sits, frozen, in her seat. The old plasticky booth is somewhat sticky against her legs despite the cold. In the summer time it would be warm enough that you would have to scrape her bare thighs off with a spatula. The idea of pushing Lysithea too fast is, as always, a constant fear in the back of her head, like the buzzing of a phone alarm reminding her not to do what she usually does and fuck this up.

"No," Hilda says. "I'm fine."

At that, Lysithea blinks in surprise and -- surprisingly -- disappointment. "Oh. Alright. Do you want another drink? I think I'll get another drink."

The words are on the tip of Hilda's tongue, burning at her throat, wanting to retract what she said. Instead, she holds up her empty glass and waggles it back and forth. "Just water, thanks. I think I've had one too many of these."

"Okay. Be right back."

* * *

It's not too deep into the night before Holst wanders over to their booth. He shares a few snacks with them. He downs another beer. When he orders a third pint, Hilda holds out her hand for the keys to his truck and he promptly passes them over without complaint.

“Do you really think you should be driving?” Lysithea points out. “You’ve had a few tonight as well.”

Hilda swings the keys around her finger. “Can you reach the pedals?”

Glaring, Lysithea snatches the keys from her. “Give me those.”

In the end, Lysithea is the one to drive them home. The headlights cast the farm road in eerie shadows, and she drives extra slow to try to avoid as many pot holes as possible. 

The downside to Lysithea driving is that Hilda has to sit in the middle (which is The Worst). The upside is that Hilda can keep a surreptitious hand on Lysithea’s thigh the whole way. 

Back at the house, Lysithea takes off her shoes in the long entryway. Holst's muddy gumboots are neatly lined up against the wall beneath the series of wooden coat pegs. Out of force of habit of being on the farm again, Hilda takes off her own stylish boots, and immediately sinks down three inches. It means that the top of her head now barely reaches Holst's shoulders. 

She is seriously considering putting heels back on, when Lysithea says, "I think I'll take a shower."

"Want some company?" Hilda asks. 

Lysithea hums a contemplative note. "I’ll just take an actual shower, thanks."

"Boring," Hilda says in a sing-song voice, but winks at her anyway. "I'll come to bed in a bit."

With a wave, Lysithea wanders off through the spacious living room and down the hall. The house is dark. Presumably dad has already gone to bed. Lysithea leaves on a trail of lights as she goes. 

Holst waits until the door to the bedroom is shut before going after Lysithea and turning off most of the lights in her wake. Another force of habit. Hilda herself had to resist the urge to the same. Instead, she stands by the old chair that her father favours. The leather is cracked and shiny from years of use, but none of them had the heart to throw it out. It’s too comfortable. It holds too much emotional value. 

A knitted woolen blanket is thrown over one of the glossy arms. As a kid, Hilda had always thought that mom had made it. It wasn’t until she was older that she realised mom was truly terrible at knitting and sewing, and that dad had made it all along. 

Despite the long shadows cast over the house, Holst manoeuvres his way back through the living room with ease. The only light is that of the moon, the porch, and the sliver of pale yellowish light from beneath Hilda’s closed bedroom door, where Lysithea is having her shower. Neither of them need light to wander this house. Not when the layout hasn’t changed in over thirty years, and every creaky floorboard is firmly ingrained in their every childhood memory. 

Hilda nods towards him. “You looked good tonight.”

“I look good every night,” Holst says. 

She rolls her eyes. “Shut up, and accept my compliment.”

“Thank you. I will.” The grin slowly slips from Holst’s face. He clears his throat, and rubs a hand at the back of his neck. “Hey - uh - can we talk?”

“Oh, no. What’s wrong?” Hilda asks, already expecting the worst. 

“Nothing,” Holst says. When Hilda just arches a cool eyebrow at him, he shrugs and lowers his arm. “I appreciate that you’re just here for the weekend, but we need to discuss dad’s will before you go.”

Hilda darts a look over her shoulder. Lysithea is already in the shower; she can hear the roar of the pipes. Still, the walls in this house are thin. She lowers her voice to a hiss. “Can we please talk about this some other time?”

His brow is furrowed, but he keeps his voice to a low rumble rather than the usual raucous level their family employs. “I don’t understand why you’re so dead against taking ownership of the farm.”

“Because I have things I want to do with my life that don’t involve the latest in Rotary Milk Sheds Magazine.”

Holst brandishes an admonishing finger under her nose. “Now, I won’t hear a bad word said about RMS Mag in this house.”

“Oh, for _ fuck’s sake.” _

“I can’t keep doing this forever, Hilda. Uncle Henrick and his boys are helping me out when they can, but there will come a time when you need to step up to the plate. Dad won’t live forever.”

“Yeah, thanks. I know that.”

“You wouldn’t even have to visit more often than you already do,” Holst says, and he’s using that annoying older brother voice like she’s six again. “We just need to sign some papers, and then arrange for a farm manager to act in your stead for the time being.”

Shaking her head, Hilda strides past him towards the kitchen. “I need a cup of coffee.”

“We’re out of freeze-dried.”

“Fine! Tea, then.”

He follows after her. He has to duck through the doorway so that his head doesn’t hit the arch. “Caffeine this late at night isn’t good for you.”

Hilda flicks on the kitchen light. She fills the electric kettle with water from the tap, and sets it to boil. “I’m thirty-one years old. I have a PhD. I’ll damn well have caffeine when I want to have caffeine.”

With a sigh, Holst lets it go. He steps by her and makes a start into the dishes that dad has left in the sink, because these days dad is too old and shaky to be cleaning his own chef’s knives let alone running a farm. 

The kettle boils, and Hilda grabs the jar of teabags that’s been in the same place since she was born. “Do you want a cup?”

Holst shakes his head. He has a dish towel draped over one massive shoulder. “No, thank you.”

She pours only a cup for herself, grabbing the bottle of fresh milk from the fridge and adding a healthy dollop. The tea isn’t nearly bracing enough, but it gives her something to do with her hands that doesn’t involve nervously wringing them together.

Warm water sloshes in the sink as Holst scrubs at a plate. “You’re awfully antagonistic this trip. More so than usual, I mean.”

The tea is too hot to drink quickly, but Hilda takes a large slurp anyway. “It’s almost like I expected to be ambushed by inheritance talks the moment I walked through the front door.”

“You’re acting like this is the end of the world.”

“I like what I do.” The porcelain sears between Hilda’s hands. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I worked hard to get there.”

“I know that.” 

Silence settles over the kitchen. Hilda taps her fingers against the mug. Her rings clack. They can hear the hiss of the shower from the other room shut off.

After a long moment, Holst says, “Lysithea’s nice. I like her way more than that last guy you brought home. The short one with the blue hair.”

She shoots him a scathing look. “Gee. Thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it like -” He breaks off with a sigh. Pulling the dishcloth from where it is draped over one shoulder, he begins drying everything that he has just cleaned. “I just want to see you settled down with someone nice. And I think she’s very nice. You’re calmer around her. And I think she would make a good addition to the family.”

Hilda lightly swats one of his brawny arms. "You didn't say any of this to her, did you? Don't go scaring her off, you asshole."

"I didn't say anything!" Holst insists. Then he adds, "Yet."

Hilda points to the night-dimmed window. "I swear to god, I will go outside, grab an axe, and cleave you in half."

He waves the white dishtowel in surrender. "Relax."

"I really like her, alright? Don't screw this up for me."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Holst returns to drying the dishes. After a moment, he says, "Dad likes her, too."

That sends Hilda's stomach into a whirlwind of somersaults. Dad had never liked any of her previous beaux before. Then again, most of her previous beaux had been thick country boys, who were lacking in every category except the sack. She has always liked her men to be the same way: big, dumb, and easy to manipulate. 

Lysithea is, of course, none of those things.

And then Holst says, "So, when are you going to propose?"

Hilda chokes on her tea. Her face goes bright red. She doesn't need a mirror to know that her complexion is now clashing terribly with her clothes. She splutters. "That's -! Well, I mean -!"

"Haven't you thought of it?"

"I have," Hilda admits slowly. "And -- not that it’s any of your goddamn business -- but we've, y’know, _ talked." _

"And you haven't put a ring on her finger yet? Oh, Hilda..."

Slamming her teacup on the bench, Hilda growls, "What? Why am I the one who needs to propose here?"

"Well, because you're -" he gestures at her with a wave of the drying towel. "You know..."

Her glower is sharper than the knives on the drying rack. "No, go on. Say it."

Holst has never had a very strong sense of self-preservation. It shows, because he does in fact continue. "You're a very forceful personality. Always have been."

“Forceful personality?! I am a delicate flower!" Hilda stamps one foot on the ground. "And maybe _ I'm _ the one who wants to be proposed to! Have you ever thought of that? Huh?"

"It's not me who needs to think of that," he replies dryly. 

That stops Hilda dead in her tracks. Her mouth works, but no noise comes out. Finally, she swipes up her cup of tea, and drains it dry. 

“I am just looking out for you,” Holst insists. “And don’t be an ass. Not about this.”

“I’m not having this conversation with you,” she says once she’s finished.

“No. You should be having it with her.”

She clamps her mouth shut so hard she can feel her jaw ache. “I’m going to bed.”

“Just -” he sighs, “- think about what I said. About everything.”

Hilda shoves the now empty cup in his hands for him to clean. “Good _ night.” _

* * *

Hilda sleeps poorly. She tosses and turns all night, and still wakes early enough to see sunlight creep through the window to the sound of distant birdsong. She whittles away an hour by curling up behind Lysithea, and sticking her nose into the back of Lysithea's neck. 

Lysithea remains asleep. She is warm, and soft, and smells like clean soap and freshly washed sheets. Her long pale hair tickles Hilda's face. Hilda wouldn't move for the world.

Eventually however, Hilda is very much awake. And when Hilda is awake, she cannot keep from fidgeting. When she feels her own feet start to twitch, she gets out of bed to ensure that she doesn't wake Lysithea.

Wrapped in a cosy last season sweater, Hilda creeps out of the room. She closes the door quietly behind her, and wanders towards the kitchen.

Holst is already awake. He is cradling a cup of freshly brewed tea. When he sees her enter the kitchen, he blinks in surprise. "You're up early. The pot is on. Do you want a cup?"

"No," Hilda yawns. She runs a hand through her hair, which is still slightly mussed with sleep. "Can I have your keys?"

Fishing them from his jeans pocket, he tosses them to her. "Going to the village?"

She catches them. "Just for a bit. I'll be back in a hot second."

"We need more bread. And can you pick up the mail?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm on it."

In the entryway, Hilda stomps her feet into a pair of ugly boots that are nonetheless very comfortable, and more importantly she isn't afraid to get them dirty. 

The mailbox for the farmhouse is over a mile away. Hilda doesn't get out of the truck, just leans through the open window to grab whatever is in the mailbox. It's a quick jaunt to Locket through the low-hanging fog. She picks up a few loaves of fresh bread and a local newspaper. 

By the time she makes it back home, Lysithea is awake and having a cup of tea in the kitchen with Holst. Stepping out of the truck, Hilda pauses outside. She can see Lysithea through the mist-clung window; she has dressed into casual clothes, but her pale hair is still cowlicked from pressing against a pillow for so long. 

When Hilda enters the house, and makes her way into the kitchen. She makes a point of putting down the bread, the newspaper, and the letters so she can run her fingers through Lysithea’s hair. It does little to tame the persistent cowlick. 

“Morning,” Hilda says. 

“Hey.” Lysithea does not tell her to stop, though her eyes do alight upon the newspaper. “Is this the local rag?”

"Mhmm. It's not the paper you're used to," Hilda says. Pulling her hand away from Lysithea’s hair, she flips a few pages of the newspaper over. "But it has a halfway decent crossword! Want to do it with me?"

Lysithea surprises her utterly by saying, "How about later? We can do it on the plane ride back this afternoon. Holst was telling me about one of the gentler walks on the farm. Think you can show me around?"

Holst himself has busied himself by taking the loaves of bread -- but for one -- and putting them into the freezer. The one he has kept out, he breaks into, placing a few slices into the toaster to start on breakfast. The moment his name is mentioned, he flips the bag of sliced bread shut, and reapplies the twist tie. "I can have brunch ready for you when you get back."

"Sure." Hilda tugs at a lock of Lysithea's hair. "You ready to go now? You might want to grab a jumper. It's chilly out there today."

A few minutes later, Lysithea is dressed in one of Hilda's oversized woolen sweaters. On Hilda it would have been just slightly too big, masking her bulky shoulders somewhat. On Lysithea, it could have acted as a dress. As they head out, one of the dogs thinks it can join on walkies, but Hilda shoos it away.

"We could bring him," Lysithea offers.

"Nah. He'll just be a pest." Hilda points back to the farmhouse. "Go on, Brindle!" 

Dutifully, the dog trots back, and flops beneath the shelter of the eaves. 

The house recedes as they go on their way. When Hilda had driven into Locket earlier, the fog had been thick enough to obscure the mountains and make the trees loom through like shadows. Now, the sun has begun to burn it away, giving detail to the world once more. Hilda guides them towards the gentlest walk on the property, but still she makes sure to take frequent stops. Lysithea's breathing only grows slightly laboured, but she has sounded more winded in bed to be honest. 

"Uuugh," Hilda's feet squelch through the mud and grass. She grimaces down at her old hiking boots. They keep all the muck at bay, but they also clash terribly with the rest of her outfit. "This is a disaster."

"I kind of like it." 

“Impossible. These boots are horrible.”

“I wasn’t talking about the boots,” Lysithea says behind her in a small voice.

Glancing over her shoulder, Hilda sees that Lysithea is trailing along in her wake. She looks -- and this really is strange -- nervous. Hilda doesn’t stop, but she does slow down slightly. 

"What is it?" Hilda asks. Her eyes narrow. "Did my dad say something to you. Did Holst?"

Lysithea shakes her head. "No. It's nothing like that."

"I'll kill him."

"Hilda, I swear. They didn't say anything. They've been nothing but lovely since we've arrived."

"Hmm," Hilda hums under her breath, disbelieving. 

Lysithea trots a few steps forward so that they walk side by side. She slips her hand into Hilda's and holds her fast. "Though I must admit -"

"Oh, here we go." 

"It's not bad. I just have to say that when we first arrived I was -" Lysithea takes a second to fish for the right word. "- puzzled. This place seemed so unlike you. I had a difficult time reconciling that you grew up here. But the longer we've stayed, the more apparent it becomes. You really are at home here."

"It's the boots." Hilda lifts one of the offending shoes as they walk like she’s goose-stepping. "They ruin my whole ensemble."

"It's not the boots," Lysithea says. Then, after a moment, she adds. "Well, the boots don't hurt."

"They do. Specifically, they hurt my eyes."

"Hey," Lysithea's voice has gentled. She squeezes Hilda's hand to get her to stop. 

They are standing in a clearing. The trees rise up on all sides. The grass is green and lush beneath their feet. Late morning sunlight slants through the low-hanging mist, and through the boughs of the trees can be seen the distant snowy mountain peaks bearing their misty capes. 

Lysithea's words are a soft murmur. "You've been so uptight during this trip. Is there something I can do to help?"

Hilda lets out a long breath she had not known she was holding. It escapes her in a rush of air. She glances back in the direction of the house, but they've put it far behind them. Nobody is following them. They are alone. 

"It's -" Hilda grimaces. "To be honest, I'm nervous."

"I already know that. I am a genius, you know."

Hilda laughs, but it's shaky and short and sharp. She has to clear her throat. Lysithea is still holding her hand, and her skin is cool against Hilda's own sweaty palm. "Every time I've brought someone back home, it's always turned out badly."

"Your family scares them away?" Lysithea asks. “Because I’ve met way scarier people. You remember Hubert, right?”

"Yes. No. Not always." Hilda shrugs. "It's just - nothing ever goes right for me after this step. And I don't want that to happen again. Not this time. Not with you. I kind of like you, you know."

"Yes, I got that impression, thanks." 

“Just a little, though. Can’t have people thinking I’m going soft.”

“Your secret is safe with me."

"So, yeah. I'm nervous. And you know what the only thing I can think of is?"

Lysithea cocks her head to one side.

"That I really really should've danced with you last night." Hilda lightly smacks her own forehead with her free hand. "I've been kicking myself over it all day."

With a smile, Lysithea shakes her head. She turns Hilda's hand over, and seems to be deep in thought for a moment. Then, she says, "We can now, if you want."

"Here?" Hilda gestures to the gently sloping woodland around them. "And without music? What do you take me for? A loose woman?"

"Oh, shut up, and dance with me already." 

Lysithea has to reach up to grab Hilda's other hand and bring it to her waist. Hilda's mouth goes dry. Her heart flops around in her chest in a dumb romance novel kind of way.

She's supposed to be past this point in the relationship already. She’s supposed to be restless and distant. She's supposed to be bored. It terrifies her that she isn’t. 

Lysithea hums under her breath. It's a warm sound, surprisingly light and airy. She tends to only ever sing if she thinks nobody else is around. Even Hilda only hears Lysithea singing softly when they're in separate rooms in the apartment. Usually when Lysithea is in the bathroom for her morning routine, or in the kitchen brewing coffee.

It’s not a dance so much as it’s a sway. Hilda guides them around in small circles to make it more of an actual dance. Lysithea never dances with her in public. Normally, Hilda has to coax her into dancing in the kitchen. She’s only done it in public once at Claude’s three months ago. A trendy new band was opening there, and the bar had been packed. 

The fact that she had been willing to dance with Hilda last night at the village pub is unprecedented. 

“Holst and I were talking last night.”

Lysithea hums an inquisitive note, prompting Hilda to continue.

“Not going to lie, it got a little awkward. He was basically trying to foist off the inheritance onto me. Dad’s not getting any younger, and Holst wants me to officially start to look after the estate. It’s such a pain.”

For a moment Lysithea did not reply. Then she asked, “And what did you say?”

Hilda exhales a long breath that she turns into blowing a raspberry. “Well, he’s very insistent. But I don’t think I can be responsible for something like that. I can barely look after a house pet, let alone a thousand cows.”

“That’s -” Lysithea blinks. “- a lot of cows.”

“You’re telling me.” Hilda leads them around in a slow circular pattern. The long grass catches on the edges of her hiking boots with every step. “Anyway, I haven’t decided yet. I wouldn’t have to move out here for, like, ten years to really take over, but still. It’s a big commitment. I don’t know if I’m ready to give up what I have to come back to this old place.”

“You could be the most stylish farmer on this coast, though,” Lysithea points out.

“Hmm. Tempting. But not very challenging.” 

"It's not a bad early retirement plan." Lysithea adds. "I kind of like the idea of just disappearing off the map one day. Though we would have to put a proper airstrip into Locket for El's jet."

"She can use one of the paddocks."

"I don't think jets work like that."

"She'll be fine."

"You know your brother is just going to keep worrying about this until you give him an answer, right?"

Hilda rolls her eyes. "He's always worrying about something. Might as well make it something that will turn out right in the end."

Lysithea furrows her brow. "You never intended to say no to him, did you?"

"I am incapable of saying no. Especially not to a good cause. It's just a part of my giving nature."

Slowing to a stop, Lysithea studies her face carefully. “I hope I’m one of your good causes.”

With a snort of laughter, Hilda asks, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I -” Lysithea chews at her lower lip, one of her signature nervous ticks. “I may have overheard a little of your talk with Holst last night, and -”

When Lysithea begins to fish around in one of her pockets for something, Hilda’s eyes go wide. She has to turn around and catch her breath. It feels just like that time she was playing rugby in an empty paddock, and was kneed in the gut by her cousin, Hughes.

It's one of Hilda's worst-kept secrets, that she is flustered by genuine romance. The best way to avoid getting all blubbery over even the most cheesy of romance movies is to either a) not watch them at all, or b) tell horrible jokes throughout all the bits that would normally get her misty-eyed. 

It's embarrassing. It’s debilitating. It's something that would've gotten her severely mocked by a horde of male cousins since the age of zero.

“Hilda?”

Hilda peeks over her shoulder as if expecting a zombie to leap out of the bushes. Instead, it’s just Lysithea standing there with a little velvet box in her hand. Which is even more terrifying, arguably. 

“Is this -?” Lysithea tilts the box back and forth like she’s debating whether she should just chuck it and run. “Is this not the right time or place or -? Have I messed this up?”

“No,” Hilda breathes. Then, realising what that sounds like, she hurriedly tries to correct herself. “No! I don’t mean: ‘no.’ I mean _ ‘No!’ _ I mean -! Yes! No, it’s not _ not _ the right time or place. And yes, _ yes.” _

She is blabbering. She’s too far gone. She can feel a tell-tale burning in her eyes, and has to swallow down a swell of tears. 

Lysithea stares at her, but if anything her expression is determined rather than completely baffled or put off by the way Hilda is rambling. She hesitates for only a second before saying, “I know you like a bit of showmanship, but I really don’t want to kneel down in the mud. Is it okay if I don’t -?”

“Yes!” Hilda is so excited she’s jumping up and down a little in place, and clapping her hands together. She sniffles. “Ohhhh! Open it! _ Open it!” _

“Edelgard may have helped me pick it out a few weeks ago. Because I’m bad at jewelry, and tend to just go for something I think looks pretty,” Lysithea admits as she opens the box to reveal the ring. 

It’s not gaudy, but it is eye-catching. Rose gold. Diamond. Pink sapphires. Without hesitation, Hilda sticks out her hand for Lysithea to put the ring on. For a moment Lysithea fumbles at the ring to pull it from the case -- it’s pretty firmly stuck in the velvet lining -- before slipping it onto Hilda’s finger. Her touch is warm and soft, and Hilda can’t keep the burning behind her eyes at bay any longer. 

“Please don’t cry. You’re going to make me cry.” 

“I _ can’t,” _Hilda is already wiping at her eyes with her free hand. “Thank god I’m not wearing mascara.”

Lysithea laughs, but it sounds a little watery. She shakes her head with a grin. The silly cowlick still in her hair and the oversized jumper with a plaid collar poking through are so endearing that Hilda can’t help but kiss her. Lysithea’s hands grip the front of Hilda’s woollen sweater to pull her close. 

When they part, Lysithea breathes, “I’m so glad you said yes.”

“Was there any doubt?”

“A little.”

“I’m shocked. Appalled, even. That you could even dream that I would say no to you.” Hilda kisses her again, briefly this time. “Honestly, it’s like you don’t know me at all.”

With a huff of laughter, Lysithea pulls away, but drops her arm to lace their fingers together. She tugs at Hilda’s hand. “Come on. Show me the rest of the walk. And then let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we're done! thanks for joining!

**Author's Note:**

> yeah I know Hilda is supposed to be short also but have you considered: I do what I want?
> 
> buff Hilda or death


End file.
